


The Destruction of Ice

by All_I_need



Category: Psy-Changeling - Nalini Singh, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Changeling!John, Changelings (Nalini Singh), Don't copy to another site, M/M, Psy!Sherlock, Silence Protocol, Slow Burn, Sort-of crossover, Touching, feelings are dangerous, forced lack of emotion, minor elements of sci-fi, murder investigation, our boys are a mess TM, psy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2020-03-08 16:53:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 91,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18898750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_I_need/pseuds/All_I_need
Summary: The year is 2081 and Sherlock Holmes never expected to encounter a threat to his Silence, the conditioning that keeps him sane and unfeeling. John Watson, on the other hand, never thought he'd find a flat in London. He certainly didn't expect to find one that comes with a Psy flatmate: brilliant, emotionless and more intriguing than John would like. When a series of brutal, random murders shakes London to its core, it is up to them to stop a vicious psychopath - preferably before Sherlock's latest experiment gets them both killed.





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sniper_clam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sniper_clam/gifts).



> Whelp, here we go again, my friends.
> 
> First of all: You do NOT need to know anything at all about Nalini Singh's Psy-Changeling series. If you do - yay! But if you don't, I will explain everything in this story. They do seem to be sort of bodice-rippers at first glance (at least the first couple of books do) but the worldbuilding is superb and I firmly believe they were written just so I could borrow this world and shove Sherlock and John into it.
> 
> This entire work is dedicated to my dear friend, flatmate and co-conspirator, sniper_clam, who allowed me to drag her into the Sherlock fandom four years ago and in return shoved the Psy-Changeling book series into my arms. Thank you for being my biggest fan, for beta-reading this story and for yelling at me about it for three entire years until it was finished. This story exists because of you.

 

 

 

_Some say the world will end in fire,_  
_Some say in ice._  
_From what I've tasted of desire_  
_I hold with those who favour fire._  
_But if it had to perish twice,_  
_I think I know enough of hate_  
_To say that for destruction ice_  
_Is also great_  
_And would suffice._

 

_\- Fire and Ice, Robert Frost_

 

 

**PREFACE**

In 1979, after ten long years of debate, the Psy Council implemented the Silence Protocol in a desperate bid to get a grip on the rising numbers of psychopathic serial killers among the Psy populace. In the following century, Psy children were taught to shun all emotion, to feel no hate, no fear, no love.

But not every child adapted to Silence as well as the Council wished. Failure to uphold Silence became punishable by forced rehabilitation and in particularly tough cases the 'patient' ends up as little more than an empty shell suited for basic manual labour afterwards.

Now, in the year 2081, the Psy are headed towards a new dawn. Rumours of the potential failure of Silence spread through the Net and the Council struggles to maintain control.

Perhaps, in time, the Psy will be forced to step out from behind their emotionless shields and face the world.

But now is not that time. Not yet.

And during the years under the Silence Protocol, those who feel nothing, the true psychopaths, have flourished...

 


	2. Chapter 1

John cursed as he stepped into a puddle, cold water soaking through his right shoe and sock in seconds. He shivered, pulling his coat tighter around himself with his free hand. His left clenched around the handle of his cane as he hurried for the entrance of the supermarket, eager to make it out of the rain.

He had forgotten how miserable the end of January usually was in London. Cold gusts of wind swept through the streets, carrying icy raindrops and making brollies quite useless.

After sixteen months in Afghanistan with its blazing heat, he was no longer used to the English weather. Yes, the nights in the desert had been freezing, but they had still been dry. Dry and full of sand and blood and adrenaline.

John missed it more than he dared admit to anyone.

Another gust of wind carried him through the automatic doors into the shop and he sighed in relief as the warm air hit him.

It still wasn't warm enough, not by far, but he would take what he could get.

His cat prowled beneath his skin, wanting to curl up in a warm corner. He suppressed the urge without much difficulty. This was hardly the place and while changelings were no uncommon sight in London, the appearance of one of them in their animal form in a local supermarket would only spell trouble. Particularly if that animal form was John's, which was a rare sight no matter where he went.

He comforted himself with the thought of curling up at home.

His cat wasn't happy with that. Ha! Home. The bedsit was barely worth the term 'accommodation'. Certainly no lair, no home.

He needed to move.

But first he needed money, an affordable place, and supplies to last until he had both.

Picking up a basket, he made his way down the aisles, loading up on the basics and trying not to linger too long in the meat aisle. His mouth watered at the smell and his stomach growled. His last proper meal had been too long ago.

With a sigh, he resigned himself to some chicken cubes before moving on.

Distracted by his growling stomach, he turned a corner and ran right into someone.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"No, no, entirely my fault, I wasn't looking," the man beamed at him, clearly unperturbed, then frowned and John saw his face light with recognition. "John? John Watson?"

He blinked, trying to place the round face.

"Stamford, Mike Stamford," the man prompted, clearly seeing his confusion. "We were at Bart's together!"

It clicked then, and John was quick to shake his hand. "Mike, of course! How are you doing?"

Mike shrugged. "Teaching at Bart's now, as it happens. What about you, though? Heard you were abroad, getting shot at."

John tipped his cane a little, trying to sound nonchalant. "Got shot."

"I'm sorry to hear it," Mike said and actually sounded sincere. "Come, let me invite you for a cuppa, for old times' sake."

John had nothing better to do and no real reason to decline, so they gathered the rest of their groceries, paid and went to find the nearest coffee shop.

Once they had found seats at a table next to the window, John took a sip of his coffee, savouring the warmth of the drink before speaking.

"You wouldn't happen to know of any vacancies in the area, would you?"

Mike gave him a sympathetic look. "Army pension not cutting it, I take it?"

John snorted. "Not even remotely. I need to find a job and a better place to stay or I'll have to try my luck elsewhere."

"And you couldn't bear to leave London, of course," Mike surmised. "Almost makes me glad to be merely human, this not having to have a home territory and everything."

The door opened, admitting two men in expensive suits, and John wrinkled his nose as the metallic stench of Psy assaulted his senses.

"It has its drawbacks and advantages, like everything else in this world."

Mike nodded. "Have you tried finding a flatmate?"

It hadn't even occurred to him, but he still grimaced at the thought. "Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?"

No changeling from another pack, certainly, and for obvious reasons no loner, and humans tended to be wary around changelings as well.

But Mike didn't seem fazed by his doubtful expression. Instead, he chuckled. "You're the second person to say that to me today."

John couldn't help himself. "Who was the first?"

*****

The scent of disinfectant almost choked him as they entered St Bartholomew's hospital. It had been years since he had completed his medical training and the memory of the scent had faded from his mind.

Mike ignored the busier hallways and instead led John first towards his office so he could get rid of his coat and then to the laboratories.

"He's a bit of an odd one, mind," Stamford said as they approached one of the doors. "You'll see."

He pushed open the door and gestured John inside and John blinked into the bright lights of the lab. Many of the appliances had been updated, there were gleaming new datapads and some of the machines looked like cutting-edge technology.

"Bit different from my day," he said and drew a deep breath.

He noticed the man at the other end of the room at the same time as his scent hit him.

Ice, like a frozen lake in deepest winter, and the sharp scent of chemicals, death, and - oddly enough - the warm smell of rosin.

Psy.

John felt his hackles rise in reaction to that scent, but then the man looked up at him and spoke.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? My datapad appears to be malfunctioning."

That voice went right past John's brain to settle in his chest, a deep baritone that he was sure would have had his ears perking up if he had been in his other form.

"Sorry, left it in my coat," Mike said, patting his suit jacket with a grimace.

John moved before he had consciously decided to do so. "Here, take mine."

The Psy male turned to stare at him and John snatched in a surprised breath at the sight of those eyes. Not an ordinary colour, like most people's, but also not the star-speckled blackness of a Cardinal Psy's eyes. No, those eyes were ... he didn't know quite how to describe them. A kaleidoscope of colours, perhaps, shifting from green to silver to blue and back with every move of his head.

"Thank you," the Psy said, accepting the phone from John's outstretched hand and beginning to type almost immediately.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John, distracted by the elegant sight of that slender body in a well-tailored suit, blinked in surprise. "Sorry?"

"Afghanistan or Iraq, which one was it?" the male asked. If he was annoyed at having to repeat himself, there was no hint of it in his voice. Flat, emotionless. Silent.

"Afghanistan. How did you-?"

But before he could start to question how the other man had known about his military record, the door opened and another Psy entered.

A greater contrast could hardly be imagined. Where the male in front of John was cold as ice, every movement calculated and controlled, this young woman almost tripped over her own feet as she offered him a cup of coffee. John could smell tiny tendrils of arousal on her and barely managed not to stare. If ever a Psy had broken Silence, this woman was it. He had heard the rumours, of course, but he had never expected to meet a flawed Psy in person.

Her name was Molly, that much could be gathered from the few words the other Psy spoke to her, and John could not help but wonder how someone so shy and demure could possibly survive in the cold environment of Psy society. In John's opinion, she acted more like a non-predatory or submissive changeling might than other members of her emotionless race.

He was torn from his thoughts when the Psy male spoke again.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

John blinked. "Flatmates? Who said anything about flatmates?"

And since when did any Psy play an instrument or question other people on their feelings on it?

He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from asking that, but now the Psy had him absolutely intrigued.

"I did. I told Mike earlier this morning I must be a difficult person to find a flatmate for and now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend recently returned from Afghanistan. I've got my eye on a place in Baker Street, together we ought to be able to afford it."

"That's it? We don't know a thing about each other and now we're looking at a flat?" John demanded. He didn't like others making decisions for him, never had, and his cat was bristling at the thought of taking orders from a stranger, and a Psy nonetheless.

The Psy in question looked faintly amused, which had to be a trick of the light because Psy didn't know what humour was.

"I know you're a changeling loner, one of the Felidae, subfamily Pantherinea, genus Panthera, also known as the big cats, you've recently been invalided home from Afghanistan under traumatic circumstances and your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic. Quite correctly, I'm afraid."

The words came out in a rush, rattled off at top speed, and concluded only when the male was already halfway out the door.

John just about managed to make him stop long enough to extract further information.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street."

And with a wink - a wink! From a Psy! - he was gone.

John decided in that very moment that he would not let this man disappear from his life without having figured out what made him different. Something told him it might take decades.

 


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for following me into the breach once more. Have some exposition in return so we can get to the good stuff!

That night, John distracted himself from the urge to shift by googling Sherlock Holmes.

The internet, while very much in use by the changelings and humans alike, had never quite captured the attention of the Psy. They had their own Net, after all, a gigantic network that all Psy minds were connected to. John knew it allowed them to communicate and even share information over vast distances, much like the internet did for everyone else.

They had briefly touched on Psy anatomy in his training - physically speaking they were the weakest of the three races but their psychic abilities and ruthless goal-oriented thinking made up for any physical shortcomings. Still, their bodies were slightly more breakable than even those of humans. In terms of physical resilience, changelings had the advantage.

Not that any of it really mattered - the Psy, while out and about on their business like everyone else, kept to themselves and most of them rarely interacted with humans or changelings unless they worked in customer service positions. And of course the Psy had other abilities to make up for their lack of physical strength, though they kept the full extent of what they could do under wraps. It certainly hadn't stopped them from becoming the world's most powerful race, though the changelings had started gaining ground in recent years.

With that knowledge in mind, John did not expect to find much - if any - information on one particular Psy on the internet and was therefore surprised to discover that not only did Sherlock Holmes' name have several mentions, but that he also had his own website.

On reading through it, John quickly realised that it was the only sensible option if the Psy wanted to reach human and changeling clientele. He wasn't quite sure what that clientele was getting precisely, but the term 'consulting detective' and the note  _"Interesting cases only"_ made him even more curious.

Finally, he put his datapad aside and went to bed, wondering what the next day would bring. For once, he did not wake screaming.

*****

After the experience of Sherlock Holmes in the flesh and his subsequent online research, John supposed he should have been ready for anything, but there was nothing to prepare him for the fact that the landlady of the flat they were inspecting was an elderly deer changeling. Even more surprisingly, Sherlock greeted her with a gesture that hinted at a hug and a kiss to the cheek. There was no actual contact, of course, but the suggestion was there.

John gaped at him.

It was hardly a secret that Psy shunned physical contact just as much as changelings craved it. No Psy would run the risk of touching another person. Was there  _anything_ ordinary about this particular specimen? John was starting to doubt it.

He let Mrs Hudson usher him inside, giving her a reassuring smile and trying not to feel a pang when she shied away as she caught his scent. Non-predatory changelings tended to be a bit wary around predators such as himself; it was to be expected. He could do nothing to put her at ease except behave himself, so that was what he did.

The flat was a mess, but it looked comfortable enough and something about it soothed his predator. As it turned out, Sherlock had already moved in, an arrogant presumption that should have had John bristling but made him faintly amused instead. Most of his attention, however, was drawn by the clutter the other man seemed to have brought with him. Newspapers, magazines, piles of paper and books everywhere.

It was ... unusual, to say the least. He had always been taught that Psy were neat and efficient. There were datapads, after all, and all the information you could possibly want was available online somewhere, so long as it was legal. Not to mention that books and paper were horrendously expensive.

"I prefer to have information available to me even in the case of a system malfunction," Sherlock said, as if he had read John's mind. If it wasn't for the changelings' natural shields against the mental intrusion of Psy, he might have done just that.

John prowled the sitting room once, then zeroed in on a comfy-looking armchair and made himself at home, listening with half an ear as Mrs Hudson gently chided Sherlock for the mess he had made.

How was it possible that a Psy had found occasion to 'help out' a deer changeling in a way that ended with her husband being executed? It didn't make sense. He had never heard of such a thing occurring. Perhaps it had been on the news during his time in Afghanistan? He had been rather out of the loop there.

"There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms." Mrs Hudson's voice penetrated his concentration and he glanced up at her.

"Of course we'll be needing two bedrooms."

Perhaps she was delusional? She couldn't possibly misjudge a Psy, even one as unique as Sherlock Holmes, so crassly, could she? Everyone knew Psy did not form attachments. What little information there was about their society was that even their family units were held together by genetics and family loyalty rather than any actual emotional ties. Reproduction was something that happened in a laboratory - sex had no place in their lives.

Even with his medical training John could barely imagine it. To changelings, even a loner such as himself, touch was integral. Packmates frequently greeted one another with hugs or kisses, and while those skin privileges were only given to people they trusted - friends, lovers, packmates, mates - they were essential for their mental and emotional stability.

It was one of the reasons why John felt terribly adrift in his post-war existence. Tensions in his family and his cat's instincts had driven him away from home and while he stayed in sporadic contact with his sister at least, there had been no real pack structure to give him stability and direction. The army had solved that problem for him and his unit had become his substitute pack, one where he could be himself and stay part of the group even as he kept his distance.

Now, even that fragile bond was gone, shattered by a hail of bullets.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs made him return his attention to the world outside his head in time to watch a man in a rumpled suit enter. He carried the scent of a predatory changeling and froze halfway through the door of the flat as his senses alerted him to John's presence.

They eyed one another warily, two predators in the same enclosed space.

"Where?" Sherlock demanded, interrupting before their locked gazes could turn into a dangerous staring match.

The stranger turned his head in Sherlock's direction and didn't waste time on a greeting before saying "Lauriston Gardens. There was a note this time. Will you come?"

John realised he must have missed something, a part of the conversation that had clearly taken place at some previous point. But here was another changeling speaking to Sherlock Holmes with a familiarity that suggested they saw quite a lot of one another. He wondered what that was about.

"Not in your car. I'll be right behind," Sherlock said, dismissing the other man by turning back to the window.

The stranger sneaked one last curious glance at John, then turned and left. He looked relieved, though whether that was due to Sherlock's words or because he had avoided a confrontation with John was hard to tell.

He didn't wonder about it for long. Sherlock barely waited until their visitor's steps had faded before whirling around the room like an over-excited juvenile.

"Oh, it's Christmas! Four suicides and now a note! Mrs Hudson, I'm going out, there's no telling when I might return. John, don't wait up."

And he hurried out the door before John could remark upon this completely uncharacteristic display of excitement or question him on where he was going.

John stared after him in shocked disbelief. Psy didn't jump in excitement. Psy didn't _get_ excited. He had met Psy before. They were educated, intelligent, and cold as ice. All of them. They didn't feel anything. No joy, no love, no hate or sorrow. To the Psy, everything was based on logic and business. 

"Look at him, dashing about," Mrs Hudson said fondly. "My husband was just the same. But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell."

John, being nothing of the sort, had to bite back a growl.

"You just rest your leg, I'll make you a cuppa," she continued.

"Damn my leg!", John exploded, his frustration at being unable to do as he wished bursting out of him.

She jumped, startled by his outburst, and he immediately got a grip on himself. "Sorry. I'm so sorry. It's just this stupid leg." He tapped it with his cane.

Mrs Hudson relaxed and nodded. "I understand, dear, I've got a hip."

John's stomach growled and he found himself asking her for some biscuits along with the tea.

She had barely left when a voice from the door drew his attention.

"You are a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor."

He blinked up at Sherlock, surprised. People didn't usually manage to sneak up on him, his senses were too sharp for that sort of thing. But there the Psy was, calmly putting on his gloves.

"I am, yes," John confirmed, his mouth suddenly dry. He struggled to his feet just as Sherlock stepped forward and suddenly they were much too close for comfort.

"Seen a lot of action then, have you? Been in trouble too, I bet."

"Enough for a lifetime. Far too much," John confirmed.

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock asked.

John didn't even have to think about it.

"Oh, god, yes."

*****

Hours later, John found himself walking away from a crime scene with Sherlock Holmes by his side, both of them grinning as if facing a serial killer was a delightful way to spend an evening.

John thought it might have been the best day of his life.

Earlier tonight, Sherlock had cured his psychosomatic limp with a healthy dose of adrenaline and then they had chased a cab on foot and Sherlock had gotten into a taxi with a serial killer and John had gotten to shoot someone.

And, of course, there was the matter of Sherlock's brother.

Now  _there_ was a textbook Psy. Cold, calculating, clearly averse to sentiment. John wasn't surprised at the strained relationship between the brothers but could not help but notice that Sherlock had been particularly vicious when talking to Mycroft.

The mere thought of the other Psy sent a shiver down John's back. He hadn't needed to see his light-specked black eyes to know that the man was a Cardinal. Power radiated off of him like heat off asphalt in the sun. John wasn't up to date on current politics but if Mycroft Holmes wasn't either a Councillor or just about to become one, he would eat his own tail.

Lost in thought, he followed Sherlock through London's darkened streets until they reached the Chinese restaurant at the end of Baker Street the detective had mentioned. It was still open, as Sherlock had said, and John breathed a contented sigh as they slid into a booth by the window.

"So, what is it?" Sherlock asked.

"Hm?"

"Your animal form," Sherlock said, as if that should be obvious. "I said yesterday you're one of the big cats. Which one is it?"

John stared at him, not sure whether he should be amused or annoyed. "What, you can't deduce that? How do you even know it's a cat?"

Sherlock shrugged. "When you walked into the lab and caught my scent, your eyes changed to yellow. You don't usually get that in other changelings. And Mrs Hudson shied away from you on instinct, so clearly you're one of the larger predators. She doesn't bat an eye at Lestrade."

Detective Inspector Lestrade, John had learned, was a fox. While Law Enforcement in the US consisted mostly of humans and Psy (thus putting it fully into the hands of the Psy with their ability to mind-control), Scotland Yard had always belonged to the foxes.

The DuskKeeper pack had been involved in all aspects of police work for nearly ten generations, ever since the first police force had been established in England in 1829, and were very proud of it, too.

Of course the pack alone was not strong enough to make up the entire police force. Most of the officers you saw on the street were human or belonged to other changeling packs.

"Well?" Sherlock demanded when he decided John had been silent for too long.

"Fine, you're right," John said shortly and hid behind the menu.

"Yes, I know I am," Sherlock said, not the least bit humble. "But what type-?"

"What does it matter?" John snapped.

Sherlock shrugged. "I prefer to have some advance warning. Logically, when encountering a large wildcat in one's sitting room, anyone not used to changelings is going to be startled. Knowing what type of cat you are will help me distinguish you from a more dangerous predator who might be there for reasons other than a warm spot by the fire."

John snorted. "If I wanted a warm, comfortable spot somewhere, I'd hardly be in London. And what sort of company do you keep if you expect anyone other than me to show up in the flat in their animal form?"

What he thought was: _'And what makes you think there is any predator more dangerous than me?'_

They were interrupted by the waitress and placed their orders. Once she had left, taking the menus with her, Sherlock picked up their conversation as if they had not been interrupted at all.

"You may have noticed that my lifestyle is not what anyone would deem 'safe'. People frequently wish me harm. Humans, Psy, changelings. No Psy can break through my mental shields unless they go to a lot of effort, though they might have other ways of causing me harm, and no human could possibly hope to overpower me. Changelings, on the other hand, are very physical fighters and have impenetrable mental shields. If I find a predator in the sitting room, I should like to know if I may expect an attack."

John shook his head. "It won't be a problem," he said shortly.

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "John, we are sharing a flat. Sooner or later, I will end up walking in on you in your other form."

"As I said," John repeated, clenching his teeth. "It won't be a problem."

The stared at each other until the waitress came with their drinks. John took a sip of his water, hoping the distraction would be enough to stop Sherlock from trying to question him further.

But of course now that Sherlock had stumbled upon a mystery, he had no intention of letting it go without getting an answer. He narrowed his eyes and watched John, not looking away even as the waitress returned and placed two steaming plates in front of them.

John ignored his gaze as best as he could, focusing on his food instead. It had been too long since he had last had a warm meal, and his growling stomach helped him keep his attention on the steaming chicken chow mein and satay skewers.

When he made no move to continue the conversation or answer Sherlock's question any further, Sherlock grudgingly picked up his chopsticks and turned to his own food.

It was only when he put the first bite in his mouth that John remembered.

"You're a Psy," he blurted.

Sherlock looked at him as if he was stupid. "Ye-es," he said slowly. "I thought that was fairly obvious."

John rolled his eyes at him. "I know you are. But why are you eating? Psy don't eat normal food. Don't you have nutrition bars or something?"

He knew that for a fact, having been forced to eat them once during his tour in Afghanistan when their food convoy had been attacked and they had had to spend two weeks waiting for the next delivery. What the Psy referred to as 'food' was horribly bland and came in a form reminiscent of cereal bars.

"We do," Sherlock confirmed. "They provide the perfect balance of vitamins and calories and other nutrients necessary for a healthy transport." He sniffed. "Of course, the reason why Psy don't eat normal food is because we are taught to avoid it. Taste is a very strong sensation and Psy who are not careful may end up experiencing enjoyment of the different flavours. I do prefer nutrition bars myself. They are easily stored and require no preparation except to remove the packaging. Very efficient."

"And yet you eat Chinese food."

Sherlock gave him a haughty look. "I have been informed it is impolite to come to a restaurant and not eat anything," he said. "Furthermore, my mental discipline is far too advanced to be shaken by something as ridiculous as a strong flavour."

John snorted, having noticed that Sherlock's meal consisted of bland rice and the least spicy tofu on the menu. "Right. Because everything else about your behaviour already indicates how disciplined and Silent you are."

"Silence," Sherlock said calmly but decisively, "is paramount. I may not act the way you are used to from the Psy, but I wish you to be aware that I had to adapt my ways to better suit my clients, who are mostly humans and occasionally changelings. I may mimic their behaviour, but do not for one moment believe my Silence to be anything less than perfect in every aspect."

Taken aback by the forcefulness of that final statement, John merely nodded. "All right. Fine."

He licked his lips, thinking back to a question he had been meaning to ask at Angelo's restaurant earlier that evening. "So you've never...?"

"Never what?" Sherlock asked.

John shrugged and gestured with his chopsticks. "You know. Been in a relationship."

Sherlock frowned. "No, why would I? Psy do not have relationships, John. Sentiment and touch are abhorrent to us."

John had known this, of course, but he still felt compelled to ask, trying to wrap his head around the idea. "No touch? At all? No hugs, no kisses ... no sex?"

Judging from the look on Sherlock's face, he might as well have suggested eating dog shit.

"Don't be disgusting, John. What could possibly be the point of all these things? Touch leads all too easily to broken Silence and that is a risk we cannot take. I do not understand why changelings and humans are so obsessed with physical contact, but I assure you, I do not intend to follow their example."

John looked at him, taking in the bright eyes, full mouth and sharp cheekbones, and thought it was a miracle no one had ever put any effort into trying to seduce this particular Psy. He had heard rumours, of course, about a Psy-changeling mating bond in the San Francisco area, but did not know how much credit the stories deserved. And of course he wasn't after a bond - and certainly not with Sherlock Holmes.

He decided to back off a bit.

"All right. I was just asking. No need to get all defensive. I've never shared a flat with a Psy, I'd like to know what I'm in for."

Sherlock eyed him warily. "And is all of the above something you do indulge in?"

John grinned. "When I get the chance."

"In our flat?"

"Certainly in my room, if I get lucky," John said. "I can't promise to keep the noise down, but I'll try. And I don't think you'll have to worry about it for the time being. I'm in-between girlfriends and I rarely take women back to my lair."

Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "Your  _lair_ ?"

John lifted his chin. If Sherlock expected him to understand every bit of Psy terminology he threw about, he could very well learn changeling vocabulary. "Yes. A predator's lair is his sanctuary and we do not allow strangers inside."

"Fascinating," Sherlock said, and the tone of his voice suggested he would be taking notes if he thought John would let him. Screw that, he was probably taking notes in his head. A genius like him likely didn't need to write things down to remember them.

But then the detective frowned again and then his eyes lit up in what John was already beginning to recognise as his 'I've had an idea!' look.

"Tell me, John, when was the last time you shifted?"

John almost dropped his chopsticks. "Excuse me?"

"You can't, can you?" Sherlock said, then immediately contradicted himself. "No, that's not right. You can, but you won't. That's why you are so certain I will not get to see your other form. You refuse to shift. Why is that?"

John glared at him. "None of your business."

"So I'm right, then," Sherlock said, satisfied. "I will find out sooner or later, John."

John shrugged. "In that case, I hope you enjoy waiting."

He made sure to have his entire body express his unwillingness to explore that topic further, and mercifully Sherlock seemed to get the hint and shut up about it.

Despite the tense conversation, they finished the meal in companionable silence and John was surprised to see Sherlock pay for them both.

Seeing his raised eyebrow, the detective shrugged. "You did save my life tonight and I do appreciate a useful helpmate. I'm sure we can come to a mutually satisfactory agreement."

John stared at that lush mouth and pale skin and thought, rather despairingly, that he highly doubted he would ever be satisfied.

 


	4. Chapter 3

Two days after he moved into 221b Baker Street, John came home to find Sherlock on the sitting room floor, surrounded by sheets of paper. It shouldn't have been unusual at all but John froze in the doorway, his mouth open.

Sherlock must have heard his gasp of surprise because he whirled around, dropping the papers, but of course by then it was far too late.

"You-" John began and then stopped talking to figure out what he wanted to say.

He blinked. "Uh."

Sherlock sat, straight-backed and clearly trying to appear haughty. "Yes?"

"How long were you going to hide that from me?" John asked.

Sherlock tilted his head and frowned at him. "I was not sure how you would take this, so I thought I would give you some time to adjust to living with a Psy before confronting you with-"

"-with the fact that you are telekinetic," John finished for him.

"Broadly speaking, yes."

"Broadly spea- Sherlock, you just had 20 sheets of paper flying around your head!"

The Psy said nothing, clearly aware that there was no point in trying to deny it.

John stared at him. He had known that the Psy had some crazy shit going on, of course he had known. The PsyNet and the Silence Protocol were barely scratching the surface, that much he was aware of, but they had never really made a point of explaining to others what it was that they could do. He had met some M-Psy during his training. The M stood for Medic and he had known they could do things, had seen them do it, too: detecting cancer without using any machines or tests, healing fractured bones, performing deep-tissue scans with nothing but their minds.

He knew there were other designations who did other stuff, had heard vague rumours of a guy who could teleport during his time in the army. He hadn't given the story much credit. And he had never met anyone who made things fly.

"Huh," he said. "Could be quite useful, that. Do you have a weight limit?"

Sherlock did the rapid blinking thing he did when John said something he hadn't expected. John was privately gratified with how often he had managed to startle this reaction out of the Psy in the three days he had known him. It was clearly involuntary, the only response that betrayed even a hint of emotion and wasn't shut down behind the cold wall of Sherlock's Silence.

"Houses," Sherlock said.

"Pardon?"

"My weight limit," Sherlock said. "I've never tried to lift a house."

John nodded. "Right. Sure. Neither has anyone else, I think. So these papers...?"

"Child's play," Sherlock said and, apparently deciding that John was not going to start shouting, allowed the papers to return to their previous position, hanging in the air in front of him as if pinned there.

"Brilliant," John murmured. "But you're not a Cardinal."

Sherlock shook his head. "Mycroft is, as you well know." And, clearly expecting John's question, he said: "He's a Telepath. And of course he never fails to remind me that I am merely 9.9 on the Gradient."

"And that means what exactly, in Mycroft's case?"

"It means that his ability to hold mental conversations is basically unlimited by distance. He could also invade the thoughts of other Psy and humans and, if he really made an effort, shatter the natural shields that protect changeling minds. Unfortunately, such an undertaking would leave the changeling in question either brain-damaged or quite possibly simply dead, and therefore useless to him. Nevertheless, it is best not to irk him."

John thought back to the icy scent wafting off Sherlock's brother. He suspected Mycroft might be one of the Psy Councillors, or at least aspiring to the position. He was therefore ruthless, extremely skilled, and very dangerous indeed. From having observed them together just the once, John already knew that having Mycroft and Sherlock in the same room would not be a meeting but an argument.

"What is that Gradient you mentioned?"

"It's how we measure our abilities," Sherlock said. "Anything above 9.9 is a Cardinal. Off the scales, as they say. Their power is too immense to be measurable."

Ah, John thought. That explained it then, the animosity between the brothers. Of course neither of them would admit to that being what it was, but John rather thought he knew more about family dynamics than the Psy. 0.1 points was a tiny thing to make such a big difference. And yet, looking at Sherlock, he couldn't imagine him with those endless night-sky eyes of a Cardinal, entirely black and filled with white specks of light.

"Right." John licked his lips. "For the record, I don't mind you using telekinesis so long as you agree to not use it on me, personally, unless I explicitly ask you to."

Sherlock inclined his head. "Of course."

And that was that.

*****

_5 months later_

John trudged into the flat, laden with plastic bags from Tesco and dripping with rain.

The weather outside was London's desperate attempt to prove that "early summer" did not equate warmth and dryness.

Just now he had met a young Australian woman in front of 221b who had helped him with his groceries - as it turned out, juggling a wet umbrella and two Tesco bags one-handed while trying to unlock the front door wasn't always the easiest thing to do.

"Sherlock?" There was no reply. "Great. He isn't even there. Bloody typical."

He deposited the bags on the kitchen table, toed off his shoes and got rid of his wet jacket before hunting down a towel. Just as he returned from the bathroom, Sherlock barged into the flat, hung up his coat and flung himself onto the sofa with barely a hello.

John, in the process of towel-drying his hair, glared at him.

"It's a bloody downpour out there," he complained. "You could have gotten the groceries yourself."

"Why would I?" Sherlock drawled from where he was spread out on the sofa. "I'm not the one eating any of it."

"Unless you decide it smells interesting or want to analyse the different flavours or can't be arsed to unwrap a nutrition bar," John grumbled.

"I fail to see your point," Sherlock said, eyes closed and clearly not interested in the conversation any longer.

John's glare went utterly ignored, unsurprisingly, and he contended himself with putting the groceries away in the noisiest, most inefficient way he could think of. It involved a lot of walking back and forth and taking the same route several times or going the long way around the kitchen table, and he only did it because he knew that Sherlock hated it.

Psy loathed inefficiency and there was nothing like riling Sherlock up with a bit of mindless bumbling about.

As soon as he was finished, he went for a shower. He didn't dislike being wet precisely, but there was something about wet feet that made his hackles rise and he was glad to finally get out of his socks, which were soaked through.

It had been five months since he had moved into Baker Street and so far, everything had been going fine.

Despite their obvious differences, he and Sherlock had not clashed at all, surprisingly. They spent more time together than apart and John had become a steady part of the Work, as Sherlock called it. The Work, as had quickly become apparent, was everything to the Psy.

And while there were things John had taken in stride quite quickly (such as the nutrition bars and the cool logic on which that brilliant mind operated) he had some trouble coming to terms with others.

First, there was the telekinesis. If Sherlock wanted something, he made it float towards him. Case notes, bags of evidence, his mobile phone, John's datapad, it didn't matter. If Sherlock wanted it, he got it. At one point, John had personally watched him latch on to a fleeing criminal mid-jump and reel him back towards them as if dragged on an invisible line. It was difficult to say who had been more horrified - the criminal or the members of Scotland Yard who had been around to witness the display of power.

Sherlock, of course, had shrugged it off and merely said he disliked catching criminals that way because it took all the fun out of the chase, which was a terrible argument on many levels, not least of which was the fact that Psy didn't  _have_ fun, ever.

Another thing John simply could not get used to was Sherlock's aversion to touch.

John knew his flatmate was tactile by nature, had noticed Sherlock taking in the textures of wood and stone and plants and clothes. He had even seen him peck Mrs Hudson on the cheek! And yet Sherlock insisted on wearing gloves most of the time and shunned all physical contact wherever he could.

It was impossible to mistake him for anything but a Psy, so most people didn't even consider shaking his hand. At first, John had thought that Sherlock would treat him in the same manner as their landlady and some of his clients, consciously touching them to make them feel more at ease and thus more willing to give him the information he needed to solve a case, but it had quickly become clear that Sherlock wouldn't. Apparently he had decided that, since John knew about the Psys' abhorrence of touch and didn't need to be made to feel at ease, he could dispense with such silly gestures.

This, in turn, proved a problem for John.

Changelings were by nature highly tactile and required touch for their mental and emotional equilibrium. They hugged their friends, kissed them on the mouth or cheek in greeting, and were always eager for a tangle in the sheets. Touch was paramount.

John was a loner, which made him a bit less dependent on companionship, but even he could not go for months without touching another person, be they human or changeling - or Psy.

It didn't help that he had not shifted at all since his return from Afghanistan. Not once.

By now, his cat was getting increasingly agitated and that agitation manifested in John's increased need for physical contact and the almost desperate desire to find and bed a willing partner.

To almost constantly be in the presence of someone with the looks of a male supermodel really didn't help. Knowing that person was absolutely untouchable only made him more intriguing. Cats loved a challenge.

John grinned at himself in the bathroom mirror before moving towards the shower to turn on the water. Sherlock Holmes was one hell of a challenge indeed. But, like all challenges, he was not impossible to succeed at.

The Psy may insist on being wholly in the thrall of logic, but there were some things that just didn't fit.

His scent, for example. Most Psy that John knew gave off an almost unbearable metallic stink. As all changeling packs had some means of communication between them, he knew what that meant - true Silence, a Psy so far removed from emotion they would live their entire life without even once experiencing any sort of feeling.

But there were others. Psy whose Silence wasn't quite so perfect, who were not yet beyond the reach of emotion. Psy who could, in time, learn to break the Protocol that had been enforced upon them from birth.

Sherlock did not stink of metal.

Sherlock smelled of ice and rosin and chemicals and London - every gritty alley, every brightly-lit high street, every tourist trap, and the bank of the river Thames. That, and danger.

Sherlock, John had decided, smelled like everything John enjoyed.

As the hot water of the shower ran down his back and made his muscles unclench in pleasure, John wondered what it was that made Sherlock different.

Five months had passed and he still didn't know. He could only hope that one day, he would find out why this Psy, out of all of them, had caught his interest.

Knowing the answer would not come to him from standing in the shower, no matter how much he wanted it to, John went about washing himself and finally stepped out of the shower, wrapping himself in a warm, fluffy towel. His cat luxuriated in the soft fabric and he let out an involuntary rumble, the closest he could get to a purr.

He grit his teeth. The urge to shift and curl up in the steamed-up bathroom was strong today, stronger than it had been all month. He knew why, of course. Every day it got a bit more difficult, like walking up an ever-increasing slope.

But he would not give in.

His nightmares about the war still woke him more often than not and his mental state was not one in which he felt safe changing forms.

Sherlock, of course, kept bugging him about it. Nothing overt, of course, he was far too subtle for that, but John knew he was keeping an eye on him, as if John would just say "Oh to hell with this" and shift in the middle of their sitting room.

Sometimes, the idea was tempting, if only for the look on Sherlock's face.

"John, have you seen my-"

The door burst open and Sherlock came barging into the room, as usually completely ignorant of social norms.

He stopped short when he saw John standing in the bathroom, wearing a towel wrapped around his waist and nothing else.

John swore he could see Sherlock's pupils widen, but that might also be a sign of surprise. A moment later, his expression shut down, though not quite fast enough to conceal the wild curiosity in his gaze.

"Yes?" John asked, crossing his arms, fully aware of the way his biceps bulged at the gesture. He smirked in satisfaction when he caught Sherlock noticing the same. "Did you want something?"

He made sure to make the invitation as obvious as it could possibly get, but sadly Sherlock had already recovered from his momentary surprise.

"I was looking for my magnifying glass, the number 2 one. Have you seen it?"

"In the bathroom?" John asked, then shook his head. "Nope. Can't say I have. But I could suggest some things for you to examine that certainly won't require you to magnify them."

Sherlock sniffed. "What could you possibly have that I might wish to examine? Now hurry up, Lestrade texted me. There has been a murder."

And with that he turned around and stormed out to - from the ensuing sounds - tear apart the sitting room in search of his magnifying glass.

John didn't let the disappointment get to him. Clearly his Psy was not remotely ready to embark on a course in advanced innuendo. In fact, he might have to re-take the beginners lesson.

*****

They took a cab, which was normal - Sherlock hated the Tube for some unexplained reason - and stopped at an Underground station, which was definitely not normal. Sherlock  _really_ hated the Tube.

"Where are we going?" John asked as Sherlock made a beeline for the stairs leading down to the Piccadilly Circus station. The crowd parted around him like the sea in front of Mose, mostly because it was that or be bowled over. John had to stay close behind him to make use of the gap that tried to close as soon as Sherlock had passed.

"Down," Sherlock said and his tone suggested this should be obvious.

"Yes, but why?"

"Because," the Psy said, nodding to a police officer as they entered the station proper, "this is where the victim is."

John made a face. "Pushed in front of the train?"

"Interesting guess, but no."

John realised then that there were fewer people than usual in the station. Everyone trying to go on the Piccadilly line was politely but firmly refused access.

"Oh god, someone was murdered on the train?" John asked. "On the Piccadilly line?"

This was a nightmare. Traffic would be horrible for the rest of the day, perhaps even tomorrow depending on how quickly the crime scene could be cleared.

"Isn't it fantastic?" Sherlock grinned at him. "Murder on the Underground. It's both a splendid place to kill someone and also an utterly stupid place to commit a murder. There are enough cameras on there to make it absolutely impossible for the killer to walk away unseen and yet they disappeared."

"Fantastic," John echoed.

They stepped on the escalator and descended, following the tunnels to the westbound platform.

A train stood there, looking for all the world as if it was waiting for passengers, but the only people to get on and off were police officers.

John could see DI Lestrade, deep in conversation with a member of the crime scene unit.

He looked up when they arrived and hurried over.

"Sherlock, John. Good to see you." He and John traded a firm elbow-grip, the easy touch as much part of the greeting as the words had been. "Tough business, this one."

"You always say that, and it rarely is," Sherlock said dismissively. "Now, where is the body?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes and gestured for them to step on board.

The body was that of a young man. He lay on the floor, a medium-sized puddle of blood spreading around his head.

John crouched down next to him. "Bleeding from the eyes and ears and nose. Looks like ..." He paused, feeling nauseous. "Looks like a mental attack."

Lestrade nodded. "That's what we figured, too. He's a changeling. The murderer must have tried to break through his shields."

Sherlock frowned down at the body. "That doesn't make any sense. Every Psy knows changeling shields are close to impenetrable. It would take a very strong Psy to shatter them, or perhaps a whole group all focused on that specific individual. A group would probably have been noticed. There aren't many Psy who use the Underground during rush hour. Too crowded, the risk of touch is too high."

"But it must have been a Psy," Lestrade said. "There is no one else capable of this kind of attack."

"True," Sherlock agreed. "Which makes this very interesting. You're looking for a Gradient 8 Psy at least, definitely a telepath. Here we are back to this not making sense. No Gradient 8 Tp-Psy would ever be caught riding the Underground. Eight means power and power means they are more likely to turn volatile or suffer serious brain damage due to their conditioning if their Silence fails. They would not risk the Tube, not if they liked their brain inside their head."

"Could someone have done it from farther away?" John asked. "Someone standing out on the street, maybe?"

Sherlock threw him an approving look. "Theoretically, if the Psy in question was strong enough and knew exactly where his target was at any given moment. But not with the victim on a moving train filled with other passengers."

He turned to Lestrade. "Any hints of a motive? A letter, a note, any sort of message? Did someone overhear snatches of a conversation that might be helpful?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Nothing. If anyone saw or heard anything, they're certainly not telling us about it."

"So this might have been a random killing," John surmised. "A random Psy tried to shatter a randomly chosen changeling's mental shields and killed him in the process, is that what you're saying?"

"Perhaps the shattering of the shields was merely a means to an end," Sherlock mused. "The goal might have been to kill the victim or at least leave him brain damaged without leaving any physical trace that can lead back to the killer. It is no secret that any attempt to break a changeling's mental shields will leave the victim with all the mental capacity of a toddler at best."

"You're right," John said, shaking his head. "This doesn't make any sense. Why this one? Why this specific victim? Why not someone else?" He looked at Lestrade. "What do we know about him?"

"Not much, yet," Lestrade sighed. "He belonged to DustFeather and studied at LSBU but that's about all I can tell you."

"A dove changeling?" John frowned. "Why would a dove take the Underground? He could have just flown home, saved himself the fare."

Sherlock, having used the time they spent talking to examine the body more closely, got up. "I must say, Lestrade, this is the first time in months that you've actually been true to your word and given me a truly interesting mystery. Come along, John, time to take our enquiries elsewhere while we wait for the surveillance footage. Lestrade, text me when you get it, we'll meet you at the Yard."

He turned and flounced away. John looked at Lestrade, shrugged helplessly, and followed his flatmate.

"Where are we going?" he asked as Sherlock managed to flag down a cab on Piccadilly Circus with the barest wave of his arm.

"The National Library," Sherlock said, as if that should be obvious.

"The library? Why there?" John demanded as soon as the cab was underway.

"Because," Sherlock said calmly, "this is where they keep a list of high-gradient Psy. Of course not everyone can get access to it, it would be far too easy for ambitious Psy or strategically-minded changelings to get the list and start taking out the elite."

"I'm assuming you have some sort of plan that will let you access that list anyway?" John asked warily, wondering if this was one of those days on which they committed burglary and theft.

Sherlock smiled a very satisfied smile that held no warmth at all but made up for it in terms of triumph. "Even better, John. I have a brother."

*****

He did not, of course, inform Mycroft of his plans. John knew by now that all it would have taken was a short mental communication, something Psy did all the time, as easily as breathing. But Sherlock despised talking to his brother under the best of circumstances.

"I nicked his access card," the detective said casually as they entered the library.

"Mr Holmes to see the Psy Register," he announced to the young Psy woman sitting behind the reception desk.

"Do you have an authorisation card?" she inquired coolly.

Sherlock handed her Mycroft's card with the air of someone who is already fed up with the formalities of having to prove his identity and who labours under the apprehension that everyone should know him.

She ran the card and handed it back with a polite nod. "Welcome, Mr Holmes. Take the lift to the third floor and turn right. It's the fourth door down the hall and you will-"

"-require my access card to get in," he finished the sentence for her. "I am well aware."

He turned and walked away, leaving John with no other option but to follow in his wake.

*****

"Why is the list not kept on the PsyNet?" John asked as they stepped into a small room held all in white and metal with nothing in it but one computer station.

"Could be hacked," Sherlock said easily. "I believe there is another list hidden somewhere in the Council's archives on the Net, but trying to access that would potentially kill me if Nikita Duncan was in any way involved in the security measures."

"Who?"

"Councillor Duncan," Sherlock explained, making a face. "She is based in San Francisco. Her speciality are mental viruses. I would drop dead before I even noticed I had triggered an alarm. You may have heard of her in another context, though. Her only daughter, a Cardinal Psy, dropped out of the PsyNet and formed a mating bond with the alpha of the DarkRiver changeling pack."

John blinked. He  _had_ heard that story. "I had heard a high-profile Psy had defected, but I thought it was just a rumour. I didn't know she actually dropped out of the Net. I thought your minds are linked to that by default?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, and now he sounded frustrated. "I wonder how she did it."

John wondered, too, but was too busy thinking about the other aspect of the story. So a Psy – and a Cardinal no less – had not only defected from the Net, but had done so out of love. A mating bond was something every changeling hoped for. There was only one mate for everyone and the bond lasted a lifetime. Mated partners were known to often die soon after the other or even at almost the same time, unable to bear the profound loss. It was a mental bond as much as an emotional one, not something so ridiculous as the human habit of calling anyone their 'soulmate' just because they happened to have some common interests.

To think that a Psy and a changeling alpha could find enough common ground to develop the deepest, most profound connection a changeling could experience was mind-boggling.

"I'm surprised you never heard about it," Sherlock said, already typing away at the computer. "It caused a lot of uproar in both Psy and changeling circles."

John shrugged. "I was in Afghanistan. We sometimes didn't hear news for weeks at a time. The only ones who might have been able to share information were the few Psy in my unit and they would not have thought to tell us about it as it would hardly be considered relevant for the war."

"True enough," Sherlock conceded. "Psy do not indulge in irrelevant gossip."

John smirked. "So what you are saying is that you do indulge in  _relevant_ gossip, then?"

"If it is relevant, it is important to share with others," Sherlock said haughtily. "Unless a business or political advantage may be gained from keeping said information close, of course."

"Of course," John echoed. He gestured at the computer. "Is this going to take much longer?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm just scanning the information and filing it away in my mental safe. I only need to read through the list and memorise it."

"Oh, is that all," John muttered. It had been months but he still found it difficult to accept that his flatmate was not only Psy but also a genius, even by Psy standards. Idiots, Sherlock frequently said, could be found in all of the three races. It was simply that the Psy put even more stock in education than the other two, drilling their students relentlessly. Mental discipline was an important skill for every Psy and once the foundation for discipline had been laid, it was easy enough to adapt it to everything from controlling their powers to learning the materials provided at school.

John privately thought that Psy in general could be best described as erudite.

Of course changelings and humans also placed importance on education, but they tempered it with a healthy dose of play. As cubs, he and his sister had spent at least half their time playing with the other cubs in their pack, frequently switching back and forth between their human and changeling form.

He smiled fondly at the memory. They had played Catch and practised sneaking up on one another and the amused adult members of the pack. Even then John had loved the playful fights and, when he got older, he had started to entertain hopes of one day making Sentinel, one of the top soldiers of the pack. But puberty had happened and his loner status had asserted itself and he had decided that he couldn't properly serve as Sentinel when all he wanted was to be as far away as possible and that was that.

Loners, as the name already suggested, spent a lot of time alone. While most predators went roaming once they reached adulthood and spent a year or two away from the pack; they were not contend with roaming only once and were much more likely to leave their pack for long stretches of time, preferring to roam the country, continent or even the entire world on their own, seeking companionship only when they wished it.

He had been a bit disappointed to be unsuitable for the role of Sentinel, but his loner status also meant that he was not nearly as disappointed as another member of the pack would have been and his conscience would not allow him to take on the position regardless if he could not put his full heart and soul into it.

Around the same time, he had fallen out with his parents in a rather spectacular manner over their differing opinions about Harry's lifestyle, and so he had left his pack with no little sense of relief.  Their alpha had done his best to keep him and had made it clear that the pack as a whole didn't share his parents' opinion, but John had thought the distance would do them all good regardless. Soon afterwards, he had joined the Army and found his place to fight after all. Eventually, he would go back home for a visit, but for now irregular phone calls with Harry would have to do.

For all intents and purposes, he had made his home here, in London. Baker Street was more of a home to him than the North or the hot Afghan desert had ever been and Sherlock was the only person he truly considered pack, regardless of what Sherlock himself thought of the matter.

"Done," the Psy in question said just then, tearing John from his thoughts.

"Got what you wanted?" John asked.

Sherlock made a vague hand gesture. "Not here. The walls have ears. There is no telling who might be trying to listen in."

They left the Library quickly and Sherlock hailed another cab to take them to the Yard.

"Has Lestrade texted you about the CCTV?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not yet, but he will any moment now. I kept a tally of how long it usually took him to get CCTV footage from the Underground network on previous jobs. Based on that, I was able to calculate an average response time. Factoring in the likely size of the files on such a busy line, he should be receiving the files in the next five minutes. Therefore, there is no point in us returning home just yet, so we may as well go to the Yard directly."

John looked at him, waited until Sherlock noticed his stare, and demonstratively looked at his watch. "Five minutes, starting now."

Two minutes later, Sherlock's phone buzzed. He turned the screen around for John to see.

_'Got the CCTV footage. Come by the Yard if you want to see. – GL'_

John snorted. "Point for you."

 


	5. Chapter 4

Lestrade did his best to hide his surprise at their quick appearance in his office and pointed them towards his computer. "They just finished downloading. Have a look."

Sherlock sat down in the Detective Inspector's chair, leaving John to hover over his shoulder. He didn't mind – it was amusing to see the other Yarders try and fail to understand how he could stand the close proximity to a Psy and his cat liked being close to his chosen packmate. He wondered what Sherlock would say if he knew that was how John thought of him. He wished he could reach out and touch him.

Sherlock tapped the Play button and they watched the split screen, showing four different camera angles – two from inside the train car, two from the platform inside the station. The video started with the victim getting on the train at Liverpool Street. His Oyster Card confirmed he had entered the Tube there and the footage showed he had then changed trains from the Central to the Piccadilly line at Holborn. From there, he had stood in the increasingly packed car, holding on tight to the handrail overhead, listening to music and apparently engrossed in his datapad, until he had suddenly developed a nosebleed and collapsed in an agonised heap in short order, causing a mild panic in the people around him. Someone had pulled the emergency brakes, but as the train had just entered Piccadilly Circus, it took a while for everyone to realise that something was wrong. Soon afterwards, the platform had been evacuated and closed off. If anyone had been involved in the young man's death, he or she was long gone.

"So basically we have nothing," John said. "No suspects. No evidence. Just a dead changeling and an _'everyone knows a Psy did it'_ mentality in the population."

"That seems to be correct," Sherlock confirmed, frowning at the video and playing it again from the moment the victim stepped on the train at Holborn Station.

The victim got on the train, the train moved and stopped at several stations, the victim developed a nosebleed and dropped dead. Panic in the carriage, everyone left, the police arrived.

Glaring at the screen, Sherlock hit the 'replay' button again.

The victim got on the train, the train moved and stopped at several stations, the victim developed a nosebleed and dropped dead. Panic in the carriage, everyone left, the police arrived.

This time, Sherlock slowed the footage down when hitting 'replay'.

The victim got on the train. The train moved and stopped at several stations. The victim developed a nosebleed and dropped dead. Panic in the carriage. Everyone left. The police arrived.

Sherlock's frown deepened as he backtracked and replayed that specific section again. The victim developed a nosebleed and dropped dead.

He backed up again, eyes intent on the screen as the last two minutes of the victim's life played out all over again.

"There," he finally said, pausing the video and pointing at the screen. "That's our culprit."

Lestrade leaned forward eagerly, then frowned. "That's a newspaper."

"Wrong. It's a person holding a newspaper," Sherlock corrected. He squinted at the screen. "Male, from the overall posture and position of the hands. Expensive suit."

"What's so special about him?" John asked, leaning over Sherlock's shoulder for a better view.

"He is the only person who doesn't look around in confusion at the sudden panic. He also doesn't drop his newspaper. Aware of the cameras, then, and unwilling to show his face."

The Detective Inspector nodded. "Well spotted. Now how does that help us?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It narrows down the suspect pool. We're looking for a rich male Psy. That immediately excludes all members of two of the races and half the members of the third race. The money isn't much of a help, I'm afraid."

"I would have thought him being rich would help," Lestrade argued. "There are poor Psy."

"Yes, but none of them rank at least 8 on the Gradient," Sherlock said sharply. "We already established it would take a strong Psy to cause this level of damage. Breaking a changeling's shields can take hours. This person did it in a matter of minutes. Exceptionally strong then, almost definitely a Telepath. A Psy with that level of skill will be working in a high-paying job. As this goes for all Psy of this Gradient and higher, they can all be classified as rich or at least well-off. So him being rich doesn't tell us anything his skill set didn't already imply."

"Well, damn."

"No need for profanity," Sherlock said. "We still narrowed down the suspect pool considerably, as I already said."

"How do you know he's Psy?" John asked. "Could be an uninvolved human."

"Posture," Sherlock said. "Look at his legs - at perfect angles, straight lines, shoes polished to a gleam, not a fold out of place on his trousers. The newspaper is also held at a perfect angle. No human sits like that."

"Fair enough. Do we have other footage from the rest of the station?" John asked. "Perhaps we get a glimpse of his face on the way to the exit."

Sherlock turned his head and gave Lestrade an expectant look. "Do you?"

The DI shook his head. "Not yet. Might take us a couple of hours to get all the footage from the entire station. He might have changed trains."

Sherlock grimaced. "The Piccadilly and Bakerloo lines intersect at Piccadilly Circus. Excluding the crime scene, that leaves us with three platforms and dozens of trains. And of course it would be quite impossible to pick someone out of a crowd if you do not know who you are looking for. He will have used the newspaper to disguise himself to get off the train car and away from the platform. In the general rush for the exit, it would have been extremely easy to lose the paper and disappear in the crowd. We would be hard-pressed to tell which of the thousands of people in suits at the station was the one we are looking for, even if we filtered out everyone whose face is clearly visible on the train."

Lestrade sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "So we haven't got anything."

"On the contrary," Sherlock argued. "We have quite a lot. It is simply not yet useful. Perhaps a new angle will make itself apparent once we learn more about the victim. There may be a motive somewhere, after all. Who is questioning the family?"

"I've sent Donovan," Lestrade said, pointedly ignored the Psy's grimace and continued. "She excels at getting grieving families to tell her more than they themselves thought they knew. She was dealing with a potential territory breach at Heathrow airport so I told her to fly straight to the victim's Wing from there."

John frowned. "Won't she have to talk with their Wing Leader first, to get permission to enter their territory?"

Lestrade shook his head. "The different London Wings have specific free passage agreements, particularly with the Yard. As a member of DarkStorm she can go wherever she pleases at all times and will not be challenged."

As if on cue, a shadow outside the window momentarily darkened the room and a moment later a very large raven landed on the balcony attached to Lestrade's office. The raven hopped through the open door into the double door system. It was a small room, no larger than a broom closet, that connected the balcony to the office. It had no windows and only held several hooks and a shelf. A minute passed before the door to the office opened and Sergeant Sally Donovan joined them. She was carrying her shoes in one hand and closing the final button on her blouse with the other.

"That was fast," Lestrade noted.

She shrugged, making a beeline for the coffee machine. "It was a short flight. The Doves have a very wide-spread information network. They knew something had happened. By the time I arrived, they were already quoting that old fantasy book series at me. _'Dark wings, dark words'_." She sighed. "Can't blame them, really. The entire Wing took it very hard, losing a fledgling like that. They said they have no idea about any possible motives. Looks like our vic didn't socialise with the Psy."

"Hardly surprising," Sherlock said calmly, ignoring the glare she sent in his direction. "Psy do not socialise."

"You don't say."

"Please, can we stay on topic?" Lestrade asked. He had long since given up on telling Donovan to be less antagonistic towards Psy in general and Sherlock in particular. "Were you able to find out anything at all about him? Like what he was doing on the Underground?"

"Apparently he injured his wing a couple of weeks ago and wasn't allowed to fly yet. Their Wing Healer feared it would put too much strain on the still-healing wing, so he took the Tube instead. Wasn't happy about it, either."

Sally grimaced. It was no secret that bird changelings of all sorts disliked being underground. They lived in London's highest skyscrapers, tended rooftop gardens and kept clothes stored on the rooftops of most major buildings as well as their individual workplaces. As a result, while everyone else got stuck in traffic, the birds soared high above them and arrived at work on time unless there was a storm raging directly overhead.

It was therefore no surprise the Ravens and Foxes had split London and the London Police Force between them. The DuskKeeper pack patrolled the streets and parks and underground tunnels, the narrow side streets and dark yards, while the members of the DarkStorm Wing provided air surveillance and messaging services and the fastest first response team the city had ever seen. The sky was quite literally their limit and the rooftops their territory.

As tradition would have it, Donovan's Wing was stationed at the Tower of London, where they had apartments in areas inaccessible to tourists and where they could come and go as they pleased, for no one would dare to try and clip their wings. And still there were always ravens at the Tower.

"So there was no reason for the killer to expect him on the Tube," Sherlock surmised. "Unless he knew about the faulty wing or perhaps even caused it himself. Did his family say how the injury occurred?"

Sally shook her head. "It wasn't the killer. He was fooling around with other DustFeather fledglings, flying dangerous manoeuvres to impress the girls. He misjudged a landing and hit the ground harder than he expected to. That was all."

"So the killer must have either observed him for some time to know about his habits or just picked him at random on the train," John concluded. "That doesn't help us much."

Sherlock nodded and pulled out his datapad to send a message to someone. "We will simply have to wait for the killer to strike again and see if any future victims will provide us with a pattern."

"That's cold," Sally commented, crossing her arms. "We can't just sit around and wait until the next body drops."

"What else do you propose to do then?" Sherlock asked without bothering to raise his head. "Do you want to track down everyone in that train car to question them in person? You could put out an alert, ask witnesses to come in, but the killer will not be among them and it will be quite impossible to tell who was there and who wasn't."

"Well, what are you going to do when another person dies?" she demanded. "Even two bodies do not make a pattern, every child could tell you that much."

"Which is why I have just activated my homeless network," Sherlock said calmly. "People on the street see and hear things even the Foxes never learn about, and they notice if some of their own go missing. Most of the time they just relocate, but it wouldn't be the first time a serial killer starts out by practising on those members of the population that won't be missed before moving on to victims with a higher profile. If that is the case, there will be other suspicious deaths out there."

"Clever," John murmured appreciatively. "How long do you think they will take to get back to you?"

"Could be hours, could be days," Sherlock told him vaguely. "It depends on who has seen something, if there was something to see at all, and how the general situation within the network is at the moment. There are times when they are more aware of everyone else than usual. I put out a warning that we may have a budding serial killer on our hands, so they will definitely be on high alert from now on and keep an eye on each other. That should make getting information much easier."

*****

They returned to Baker Street, mostly because there was nothing else for them to do while they waited for Molly to get back to them with the autopsy report.

Sherlock sat in his armchair with his datapad and watched as John prowled around the sitting room.

Five months into their living arrangement and he still hadn't seen John shift or gotten any hint of which of the big cats he could turn into. Every suggestion of his - and he had suggested every cat species ever identified - had been met with the same blank expression as if John had not even heard any of these words before.

It was a challenge and a mystery and therefore Sherlock refused to let the topic go.

He knew - or extrapolated, which really was much the same in this situation - that John had not shifted since his return from Afghanistan, which indicated a war trauma of some kind. There certainly were enough reasons for such a thing readily at hand and John was exhibiting all the signs of suffering - or having suffered - severe mental repercussions from his time in an active war zone.

And yet Sherlock was certain that John could shift if he wanted to - he simply refused to.

It was inexplicable.

Why was he denying part of his very nature? Sherlock could not imagine not using his telekinesis. He might as well cut off his arm. It would be highly illogical to deliberately cripple himself and lower his efficiency in such a way. And yet John did it.

Sherlock watched as he paced and wondered if John was aware of the fact that his behaviour was getting increasingly cat-like with each passing day.

He gravitated towards warm places, his eyes tracked anything that moved and as soon as he spent more than precisely three and a half minutes in any room without a specific task to complete, he started pacing.

It was fascinating.

Then there were the women.

John tracked movement and more often than not the person moving was a woman who had happened to catch his eye.

Sherlock couldn't understand that, either.

He understood the basic concept, of course, could easily comprehend that humans and changelings required physical contact just as much as Psy avoided it, but the reasoning behind it remained a mystery.

There was no discernible benefit to touching other people, let alone the baffling practice of swapping bodily fluids.

They called the resulting sensation "pleasure", but Sherlock could not for the life of him conceive how any of these actions could possibly be pleasant.

The best that could be said about them was that they did not seem to be painful if executed correctly, but a lack of pain did not preclude the presence of something else.

Psy were raised to shun all emotion. The strongest sentiment any of them experienced was interest, perhaps even curiosity. Both of these were encouraged as the thirst for knowledge led to the  _acquisition_ of knowledge and perhaps even innovation, which in turn meant technological advancement and financial gain.

Those were things Psy understood and excelled at. Why anyone would waste valuable time on activities that brought neither of these things was incomprehensible.

Sherlock was cursed - according to his brother - with a thirst for knowledge about everything.

As such, things that were labelled 'incomprehensible' or even 'irrelevant' instantly attracted his attention.

It was the reason he sometimes plucked a morsel of food off of John's plate. He did not require it - his nutrition bars were perfectly serviceable when it came to supplying his body with the required nutrients and energy to keep his transport at peak health - but there was something inherently interesting and fascinating in the forbidden.

Despite his interest, even he knew better than to try strong flavours. Rice and pasta and even bread were fine, as was the occasional cracker. All of these tasted rather bland to humans and changelings when compared to the rest of their food. To Sherlock, anything more might well trigger the dissonance built into his mind as part of his conditioning.

Psy, especially Tk-Psy, above a certain Gradient received special conditioning that included a kind of mental wire trap to keep their Silence in place. Any strong sensation caused a stabbing mental pain to remind them to keep their distance from sentiment.

Tk were dangerous. As young children they had no control over their abilities and were taught almost from the cradle to prevent them from accidentally hurting themselves or others. An angry Tk child might end up shattering windows or making cutlery fly across the room.

Incidents such as these had led to the introduction of dissonance - the only way to teach them not to feel.

Being 9.9 on the Gradient, Sherlock had learned that emotion meant pain long before he had had the words for either. His Silence was perfect and impenetrable.

It had to be.

*****

John felt ready to burst out of his skin. His cat was clawing at his insides and it took all the concentration he had to keep from shifting.

The mere idea of shifting here, in London, in the flat, made cold sweat break out across his body. He hadn't shifted in so long and he missed it with an intensity that ached but he just couldn't dare. Sherlock was in the flat and Mrs Hudson was just downstairs and there were so many people on the streets and he was lethal.

He couldn't risk it. Not after what had happened in Afghanistan.

Perhaps he should go back to his therapist and - no.

He frowned.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Do Psy ever get mental health problems?"

Those iridescent eyes snapped up to focus on him with a stare that seemed to look right into his soul. Sherlock tilted his head a little, a habitual movement that betrayed his interest in the topic.

"Sometimes a Psy will become unstable," he said carefully.

"And do they ever go to therapy for that?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "Of course not. They are reconditioned to strengthen their Silence. If that does not help, they are rehabilitated."

John frowned, never having heard that term in this context before. "And that means?"

But Sherlock shut his mouth with a click and shook his head, a flicker of something passing across his face. John thought it might have been pain but it was too brief to be certain. Perhaps he had a headache.

He sighed.

"Why did you ask?" Sherlock's voice was calm, controlled.

John shrugged. "I was curious."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "You are thinking of returning to therapy. Why?"

"I'm not," John told him, trying not to sound like he was snarling. "She didn't understand the first thing about me and she didn't want to."

"Why not?"

John pinched the bridge of his nose, reminding himself that being angry wouldn't change anything. "She was an antelope changeling. Don't know why they thought sending me to her would be a good idea."

"I thought there was a no-kill rule between predatory and non-predatory changelings," Sherlock said, picking up on what John hadn't said.

John wondered where he had heard that.

"In the cities, maybe. It very much depends on the packs. Some of the packs think being a predator is all the excuse they need."

"But you don't." It was a statement of fact.

"No, I don't," John agreed. "But that doesn't mean shit. Everyone's got prejudices and hers were too close to the surface. I think she saw me less as a patient and more as a trigger for bad memories."

Sherlock shook his head. "She should not let her personal opinions cloud her professional judgement."

"Unfortunately, for those of us who have emotions, that isn't always an option," John growled.

"In that case, I cannot help you," Sherlock told him calmly. "Except to suggest that you seek out a different therapist."

John shook his head. "I don't need one."

"You haven't shifted in half a year, John. Your entire behaviour is turning increasingly cat-like, your temper is triggered by the tiniest of things and you are, right at this moment, prowling our sitting room like a caged panther."

John winced. He hadn't thought Sherlock would notice his changed behaviour. Stupid. Sherlock noticed everything. John had hoped he wouldn't understand what he was seeing, though. Clearly he was shit out of luck.

"Whatever," he said and turned on his heel. "I'm going out."

Sherlock glanced at the clock. "Now?"

"Yes, now," John snapped. "I need skin privileges, so I'll find someone willing to share them with me, since my flatmate is a bloody robot."

He turned and left, not giving Sherlock a chance to respond.  
  


 


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, I have reached the half-million word milestone on Ao3. Thank you all for reading along - your comments and kudos and recs are the reason I keep feeling inspired and excited about publishing my works for you.

The pub was packed, as was normal for a Friday evening. Most of the clientele were humans with a handful of changelings thrown in for good measure. John recognised them based on their smell or - when they were too far away to pick up their scent - by the way they moved and their obvious comfort in their skin. Thanks to the pesky issue of clothing disintegrating with each shift, changelings spent too much of their time being entirely naked, frequently in front of other people, to waste much energy on worrying about their bodies.

There were no Psy. Of course not.

John went to the bar, noting with wry amusement how some of the changelings that caught his scent hastily moved aside. No one wanted to get between a predator and his destination.

He caught the bartender's eye, ordered a pint and leaned against the bar, casually pursuing the crowd.

It had been far too long since he had last gone out for a drink and to have fun. His skin was itching to be touched and if he played his cards right, he wouldn't return home until the next morning.

"John!"

He turned at the sound of his name and found Stamford and some of their old mates from university at a table not too far away. Grabbing his pint, he went to join them.

"Mike, Tyson, Emily, fancy seeing you here."

They exchanged friendly greetings. Emily and Tyson were both changelings, members of an ocelot pack based in Camberwell, and they both hugged John in welcome.

"You're quite far from your usual turf," he commented. "Bored at home?"

Emily laughed. "You know how pack can be, John. We love them dearly, but sometimes you just want to get away and have some peace and quiet."

John looked around the pub and raised his eyebrows. "If you wanted peace and quiet, why on earth did you come here?"

"What, do you mean this is not the spa?" Tyson asked, looking around with exaggerated surprise. "I knew something wasn't right!"

They all laughed and traded some good-natured jibes before Emily grasped John's arm. "What have you been up to, then?"

"Nothing much. My flatmate keeps me on my toes. I don't think I've had more than a handful of nights out on my own since Mike here set us up."

"Knew you'd get along," Mike said, shrugging. "Bit like a house on fire, the two of you."

John snorted. "He certainly ends up setting fire to things often enough."

"What's your flatmate like?" Tyson asked, then wrinkled his nose. "And where the hell have you been today? You absolutely reek of Psy."

"Oh, that'll probably be him," John said casually. "Sherlock is a Psy."

They both gaped at him. "You share a flat with a Psy? And you haven't killed each other yet?"

John grinned. "I'm as amazed as you are, but nope. It's all fine. He's ... not like any Psy you've ever seen, I can promise you that."

Emily leaned forward and lowered her voice to avoid being overheard. "Has he ... you know ... defected?"

John shook his head. "I know there've been stories, but no. But I'm not sure he's as Silent as he'd like people to believe."

"Stories," Tyson said, rolling his eyes. "We're way past stories. It's a well-known fact, now. Councillor Duncan's daughter and Faith Nightstar both defected."

"Faith who?"

"You know, Nightstar. That powerful Psy clan that has all those freaks who can see the future? She just up and left, joined Sasha Duncan in the DarkRiver pack down in San Francisco. Gosh, John, you're so out of the loop!"

"The war will do that to a person. Haven't had a chance to really catch up with anyone," John said, still reeling from this new information. "You're certain? She defected, just like that?"

"Mated to one of the Sentinels from what I heard," Emily confirmed, nodding. "Two Psy mated into a leopard pack! And I heard rumours they're not the only ones."

John shook his head in disbelief. "But how? Everyone knows Psy don't go in for that sort of thing."

Tyson shrugged. "Well you know what us cats get like when we have our mind set on a person. I hear the DarkRiver alpha pulled out all the stops to get Sasha Duncan and his packmate regularly broke into a secure Psy facility to watch over Faith Nightstar until she chose to abscond with him."

That did actually sound like something a cat would do. "But they must have dropped out of the net for the pack to accept them, mustn't they?" he asked. "Listen, I live with a Psy and he said it's not possible. There's no way they could've done it."

"Perhaps your Psy doesn't know everything," Mike suggested. "Seems to me like their Council wouldn't want the news to spread in case other Psy decide to defect as well. It's easy to keep control over an entire race when all its members depend on the same thing. Tell them there's a way around that and I bet many will be happy to explore this new possibility."

John tried to imagine Sherlock defecting. He shivered. It was an appealing idea, and not just because Sherlock so clearly chafed against any restrictions others saw fit to place on him. In fact, it was surprising he hadn't found a way out on his own by now. Then again, Mycroft would never let that happen.

"I suppose we should keep an eye on this development," he said, trying to stay neutral and squash down the small seed of hope taking root in his heart. "Who knows how much of these rumours is true. If more Psy defect, even the Council won't be able to keep a lid on it."

Mike smiled, clearly happy to move to a less political issue. "These are changing times. Who knows what might happen next?"

The conversation moved on to local gossip about the London packs and more personal topics, such as what they were all doing with their time these days.

Tyson's older sister had recently mated and his parents were starting to drop subtle hints in his direction to follow suit. Mike told them about the shenanigans his students were getting up to - to the general consensus of  _'our practical jokes were so much better'_ \- and Emily had a lot to say about her pack's juveniles. "I think Maxim is actually glad I'm finished with my degree so I can take over for him as pack healer. He talks a lot about retiring these days."

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly but it was clear she didn't really mind.

"Don't pretend with us," John teased her, "We all know you healers would force-feed and tuck in your entire pack if they let you."

Emily grinned. "Yep. And we're proud of it, too. Just imagine, when I'm senior healer, I can actually overrule my alpha if I think he's endangering his or anyone else's health."

"Rafe told me only yesterday he's not looking forward to that," Tyson chimed in. "Can't imagine why. We all know how great alphas are at obeying orders from someone else."

John snorted. "Hearing you talk, I'm glad I'm not a natural healer. Medical school was quite enough for me."

"Well, no offense, John, but being a loner isn't very compatible with healing."

"And don't I know it," he said, affectionately wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

He caught the gaze of a woman at the bar eyeing his biceps and winked at her. She didn't blush, simply met his gaze with a challenging stare of her own - a sure-fire way to get not only him but also his inner cat interested. "Excuse me, guys. Looks like I need to buy someone a drink."

"Oh dear," Tyson muttered. "Hide your daughters, hide your sisters, barricade the doors. John is on the prowl."

He rolled his eyes at the good-natured teasing and went to join the woman by the bar.

"Hello. I couldn't help but notice you looking so I thought I'd come over and make it easier."

The woman smiled and leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. "What if I don't want to stop at looking? I might feel tempted to touch."

John grinned. "I'm sure we can come to an agreement. Why don't we discuss this over a drink?"

He didn't go home that night.

*****

John seemed much calmer when Sherlock saw him next. He thought that if he didn't know John was a changeling, he might not have noticed. After all, there usually was no difference, just like Psy only stood out from the crowd because of their pristine, monochrome clothing and expressionless faces.

Over the past five months, Sherlock had had ample opportunity to study a changeling up close and so far he hadn't managed to understand John at all.

Oh, he knew a lot about him, of course. His habits, his likes and dislikes. But it seemed as if no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much information he gathered, he never got to the sum of the parts.

What was it about these 'skin privileges' that had John so on edge and so angry with Sherlock for apparently not providing them? What was it that made him go seek them out from strangers only to return calm and almost relaxed, as if content in his own skin for once?

And why was he still not willing to shift?

Sherlock didn't know and he hated not knowing.

Even while thinking about the case, scrolling through the list of strong Tp-Psy he had memorised, a small corner of his mind stayed focused on the mystery presented by his flatmate. At least he would not get bored.

John had come home half an hour ago and had disappeared into the bathroom for what he called a relaxing bath and what Sherlock called a waste of time and resources for no discernible benefit. A simple shower was much more efficient than lying down in a tub of water, there were no two ways about it. And yet, whenever they had had this discussion, John had refused to see reason and had in fact told Sherlock to 'pull that stick out of' his behind - one of those odd figures of speech humans and changelings liked to use. And then he had locked himself in the bathroom and had a bath.

By now, Sherlock knew better than to interfere. And of course he couldn't even accuse John of wasting resources. After all, it was thanks to the changelings that the world had turned incredibly eco-friendly. If left to the Psy, they would still be using coal and nuclear power stations to get energy. Thanks to the changelings, almost half the world was part of some national park or other and absolutely everything was tied up in enough environmental protection laws to make a lawyer weep.

These days, there were wind and sea turbines in designated areas and the rooftop spaces not occupied by solar panels had been turned into urban gardens. Someone had even found a way to use windows as solar panels. Cars ran on electricity and gas stations were a thing of the past. So were oil spills and similar environmental disasters.

While the Psy had been too busy focusing on their business dealings, the changelings had quietly revolutionised the way all three races treated the Earth. And as their way was more cost-efficient and had positive long-term effects on the environment and thus the life expectancy of not only everyone alive on Earth but also of the Earth itself, the Psy had been quick to accept the changes.

London was famous for its stereotypically abysmal weather and rain water was collected in rooftop cisterns of individual homes as well as in larger government-operated basins. With the bad weather they had been having recently, their cistern would still be full. There was no reason why John should not take a bath.

Sherlock realised his mind had run away with him and was circling around the ever-present problem of John Watson rather than focusing on relevant topics such as the murder of a changeling on the Underground.

He summoned a sheet of paper and made a list of what he knew about the case so far. It wasn't a very long list and Sherlock frowned at it, displeased.

A bird changeling even taking the Tube was uncommon enough, but to have that same changeling be murdered by a Psy who had apparently randomly decided to break his natural mental shields was simply baffling.

There was no motive. Every Psy knew better than to try and infiltrate a changeling mind - even if there were no shields, it was too different from their own, too emotional. The sheer amount of sentiment might shatter the Psy's Silence and thus cause much more trouble than any information possibly gleaned in such an endeavour could be worth.

Sherlock frowned. Perhaps John could give him an idea. Being a changeling himself, his thinking patterns were utterly different from Sherlock's, driven by emotion and instinct. It would not be the first time a comment by John sent Sherlock down a completely new train of thought that ultimately led him to the correct solution.

Perhaps if he understood John better, he would eventually be able to arrive at these same solutions without needing John at all. It would be the most efficient way to solve this problem.

Sherlock decided to start practising as soon as John came out of the bath.

He did not have to wait for long. John stepped out of the bathroom with one towel wrapped around his hips, using another, smaller towel to dry his hair as he passed through the kitchen and into their sitting room on his way to the stairs.

Sherlock, seeing no reason to waste time better spent on research, said: "John, what are skin privileges?"

John froze halfway through the door. "Excuse me?"

"Your hearing is far superior to mine," Sherlock said. "You heard me just fine."

John stepped back into the sitting room, threw the towel over one muscular shoulder and crossed his arms. "I'm not sure I believe what I heard. Since when are you interested in skin privileges?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "It has come to my attention that your statements and assumptions resulting from your thinking patterns frequently lead my mind to new avenues of enquiry I had not previously entertained. My own thinking could become more efficient if I found a way to completely forego your input and arrive at these same conclusions on my own."

There was something in John's expression but Sherlock had no idea what it was supposed to be, so he kept on talking. "The biggest and most obvious difference in our thinking patterns is your tendency to put value in your instincts and have your thoughts clouded by sentiment. It appears to me that these 'skin privileges' you mentioned last night are somehow related to that."

"And you are trying to figure out my way of thinking because...?" John asked.

"As I already said, if I can decipher your thought process, I may be able to emulate it and thus solve cases more efficiently without having to consult you on changeling minds."

John nodded. "I see," he said and his mouth did that twisting thing that looked like a smile but that Sherlock knew by now really wasn't one. "And what does that have to do with skin privileges?"

Shouldn't that be obvious? "Changelings and humans frequently engage in touch," Sherlock pointed out. "Clearly there is a connection. The first step to deciphering your thought processes is understanding your behaviour and the reasoning behind it. So ... what are skin privileges and why do you require them?"

"Okay," John said. "I'm going to finish drying off and then I'm going to get dressed. And then I'm coming back down and we can try this again. Deal?"

"That seems like a reasonable way to proceed," Sherlock agreed, nodding.

John left and returned five minutes later, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt underneath a warm jumper.

"So let me get this straight," he said, sitting down in his armchair opposite Sherlock. "You want to understand how changelings think so you are going to start by trying to understand how skin privileges work. And your goal in all this is to get rid of me when working cases?"

"Broadly speaking, this is a correct summary," Sherlock confirmed. "However, I do not intend to 'get rid of you'. You are extremely helpful when it comes to a physical fight thanks to your superior physiology. However, my own efficiency will be increased by a better understanding of your way of thinking."

John nodded. "Fine. And is this going to be a purely theoretical lesson?"

Sherlock blinked and considered. A practical application would mean touch, which was forbidden and therefore inherently fascinating to him. "Depending on your responses, I may conduct some experiments."

"I thought Psy don't engage in touch. I thought that's too risky for you."

Sherlock nodded, thoughts racing as he tried to find an angle that would count as a reasonable justification for engaging in touch. "Yes. I wonder if it is possible to build up a resistance."

"A resistance to touch," John echoed. "Whatever for?"

"Everyone knows Psy react adversely to touch," Sherlock said. "It is a broadly publicised weakness. Any attacker on the street who is either human or changeling could take advantage of this flaw in my defence during a fight. I would be more efficient if I managed to build up a resistance to physical contact."

Of course, such a thing would never be an issue for him. His telekinesis was his first and strongest line of defence. Still, no need to remind John of that. He seemed perfectly happy to ignore Sherlock's abilities unless no alternative presented itself.

John snorted. "Right. Tell me one thing, then - why do Psy shun contact so much? Are you merely afraid your Silence might break?"

"Don't be ridiculous, something as simple as a touch is not going to shatter our Silence," Sherlock said, making sure his voice sounded extra scathing to cover up the fact that he wasn't sure about the reason himself. No one had ever explained it to him. "There are certain safety measures in place to help us adhere to the Protocol. Unfortunately, one of these measures prevents me from disclosing the others to you. Your medical training might be of help, however."

"Oh?"

"By allowing prolonged physical contact, I will be going directly against the Protocol and the measures meant to keep it in place. I may suffer a migraine or brain haemorrhage as a result," Sherlock said blithely.

John visibly recoiled. "What?!"

"So you see why this experiment requires a bit of preparation and a clear step-by-step plan."

"No," John said and got up. "Absolutely not."

"What's the point of an experiment if we don't follow a clear plan?" Sherlock demanded.

John threw his hands up, a gesture Sherlock had learned meant exasperation. "I am not saying no to a step-by-step plan. I'm saying no to this entire idea, Sherlock."

"Why?"

"Why? Because apparently it's likely to kill you, that's why!"

Sherlock frowned, tilted his head. "You are upset."

"Oh, you spotted that, did you? Bloody well done you."

"Why are you upset?"

John sighed. "Because you are my flatmate and even though you are a massive arse with no understanding of social interaction whatsoever, I do consider you my friend and I refuse to let you come to harm."

"John, you have no qualms about letting me enter into dangerous situations all the time."

"Yes, but this is different, for heaven's sake. This is your own brain apparently spiked with death traps to stop you from feeling things! Good lord, I thought you were simply taught not to feel and that was that. But this is ... I don't know. Mind control. Your bloody Silence Protocol has enslaved an entire race to forcibly prevent them from experiencing emotion - how can you think any of that is normal?!"

Sherlock tried to pick that angry rant apart but his logical mind would only allow one reply. "So you disapprove of Psy having to obey Silence, yet you do not wish to help me find a way around it? My entire point is that building up a resistance to touch will eventually help me avoid these pain triggers. Exposing myself to touch in a controlled environment will help me build a resistance for when I am touched outside of experimental parameters and hopefully prevent any adverse effects."

Several minutes passed in silence as John mulled it over.

Sherlock waited, knowing better than to interrupt. John might be annoyed and refuse to help him if he did, so he kept quiet, trying to figure out what John was thinking based on his expression. He had learned to read basic emotions off of faces, of course - recognising and correctly identifying sentiment in others was a valuable skill to have when negotiating any type of business deal, after all - but he soon gave up. There were too many nuances he did not understand.

"Fine," John said eventually. "I'll explain anything you might want to know about skin privileges. I even agree to show you the basics of it, but under the strict understanding that you will be honest with me about any adverse effects so we can stop before you suffer brain damage."

Sherlock nodded. "I accept your terms. I have no intention of inducing brain damage in myself, so I am sure we can come to a mutually satisfactory agreement."

John sighed and buried his face in his hands. "Do you know, I think I might already regret that decision."

*****

John spent that evening wondering if perhaps it was time to try and shift. His one-night stand with Amber the previous night had helped settle him somewhat, his body's desperate hunger for touch sated for the time being. He was relaxed and didn't expect any catastrophes that might cause him undue distress, so it was probably as safe as it could possibly be.

The fear that something might go wrong, that he might lose control and turn into a killing machine, made him almost physically sick. Unfortunately, if he didn't start shifting again, he might lose not only his ability to do so but also his sanity. He wasn't human and he could not pretend to be so. He was both his human half and his cat and he could not deny one of the two without denying his entire self. Perhaps, if he could keep up this level of skin contact, he would be fine.

And, well, if he really went ahead with helping Sherlock build a resistance to touch, at least some of his need for skin privileges would soon be met by the most unlikely person in his circle of acquaintances.

He shuddered, still horrified at how casually Sherlock had spoken about the potential danger of brain damage, as if it didn't matter, as if he didn't care.

John knew that was bullshit. Sherlock may lack the words to express sentiment or even understand what it felt like, but even he was not robotic enough to not care about his own survival - and he would be lost without his brilliant mind.

A growl rose from John's throat and his claws pricked the tips of his fingers. He had not lied earlier - he did consider Sherlock a friend, thankless though it may be, and the idea that Sherlock's own race, his own society, had effectively decided that brain damage was preferable to emotion made him want to tear them all to shreds. Worse, it made him want to hide Sherlock away from the world in his lair and cover him in touch, in affection, to make up for every moment where sentiment had been forbidden and punished.

He couldn't even imagine the kind of childhood Psy children had. As a cub, the knowledge that he was loved had been the cornerstone of his existence. Every day of his life, his entire pack had made sure he knew he was adored and appreciated. Touch had been as important as food and drink, utterly integral to daily life. Even now, despite the rift between him and his parents, he knew his pack would welcome him with open arms the moment he chose to return home. That was what pack  _was._ But Sherlock didn't have one.

John decided in that precise moment that if Sherlock did not have a pack that wanted him, then John would be all the pack he could possibly need.

And if that meant that he would eventually contemplate shifting again, if only to keep from going insane and becoming a danger to everyone around him, then so be it.

*****

He woke several hours later, gasping for breath and bathed in sweat. Visions of blood and sand still danced before his eyes and he could still hear the echo of screams - remembered or his own, he wasn't sure.

John sat up, bracing both hands on the mattress to either side of his thighs and trying not to puke.

It took him a minute or two to notice that the sheets were shredded. No doubt his claws had pushed their way through his skin during his nightmare.

Knowing that going back to sleep was no longer an option, he tugged the shreds off the mattress and dumped them in a corner of his room to be dealt with in the morning.

Sweat trickled down his back. Time for a shower, then.

He padded downstairs on silent feet and wasn't at all surprised to find Sherlock in the sitting room, either already awake or - the more likely option - not having bothered with sleep at all.

John ignored him, not ready to deal with his flatmate until he had had his shower.

The warm water helped chase away the worst of the nightmare and he felt a lot better once he had towelled himself dry and put on a fresh t-shirt and pyjama trousers. It was too early to get dressed properly, even though sleep was not going to happen tonight.

He made himself a cup of tea and moved to lie down on the sofa, taking comfort from Sherlock's quiet presence.

The Psy was sitting in his armchair, carefully polishing and tuning his violin.

"Why do you do that?" John asked curiously.

"Instruments need regular care to stay in good shape."

John rolled his eyes. "I know that. I meant why do you play the violin at all? I thought Psy don't have any use for music. Or any other form of art."

Sherlock shrugged. "I've always found that music helps me think. I was able to convince my teachers that playing an instrument would stimulate my brain patterns. We went through several trials until we settled on the violin. My efficiency increased and so did my thinking speed. They concluded I had been correct and allowed me to continue playing."

"But you also write music," John pointed out. "Psy don't create art."

"I am developing new melodies to increase the positive effect of the violin on my thought process," Sherlock told him haughtily.

"Is that what you tell them when they ask?"

"It is the truth," Sherlock said firmly.

John nodded. It may be true, and Sherlock may even believe it, but it certainly wasn't the  _whole_ truth.

"Will you explain about skin privileges now?" Sherlock asked in an obvious attempt to change the topic.

"Fine," John sighed. "Where would you like me to start?"

"What are they?" Sherlock asked instantly.

"Precisely what it says on the tin," John told him. "It's the permission to touch and be touched by others. There are various levels. Casual touch for acquaintances, such as handshakes. Almost everyone is cleared for these. Then there are touches only permitted between friends, pack mates and family. That can be anything from hugs to kisses on the mouth."

He waited for Sherlock to nod before continuing. "And then there are intimate skin privileges that are only shared with lovers."

"It is sensible to distinguish between people depending on how well you know them," Sherlock agreed. "Psy will at times be more willing to give discounts on prices to genetic relatives or members of the same family or work group."

John rolled his eyes. "How heart-warming."

But Sherlock wasn't paying attention, clearly mulling something over. Finally, he said: "Mrs Hudson."

"What about her?"

"When you moved in, you didn't even shake her hand. Now she initiates physical contact with you every chance she gets."

John snorted. "Yes. When we first met, she was a deer changeling faced with a potentially deadly predator. By now she knows that I would not harm her. Skin privileges matter. A touch can provide reassurance, show and build trust and keep us mentally balanced. It's good to feel appreciated."

Sherlock frowned. John wondered if his curious Psy would eventually figure out that John had been petting him with words rather than touch for months now. He only wished he could indulge himself and reach out and touch whenever he pleased. Changelings were tactile by nature and, well, Sherlock just looked  _so touchable_ . John was itching to bury both hands in his thick curls. Those were another thing he knew was unusual for Psy. They disliked disorder and there were few things less orderly than Sherlock's curly hair. Usually, Psy cursed with curls would cut them short or slick them back with a ton of hair product, but if anything Sherlock seemed to only use product to groom them a little and otherwise left them to curl as they pleased. John wondered if he simply couldn't be bothered. That certainly sounded like him.

"I did not realise you used touch as another way of communicating," Sherlock said, sounding put off with himself for not having noticed. "It seems there is an entire language to this. You will have to explain the different meanings to me."

Something told John this was going to be the endeavour of a lifetime. "Fine."

And if he got skin privileges with Sherlock out of the deal, who was he to complain?

 


	7. Chapter 6

They started off slowly.

It was the middle of the night, neither of them had any intention of going back to bed and there was not much else they could do. Really, it was the logical solution.

"We'll start very carefully," John said. "I don't know how much you can stand. If there is anything that triggers you, your-"

"Dissonance," Sherlock helpfully supplied.

"-your dissonance, I want you to tell me immediately. Understood?" He put on his best Captain Watson voice, knowing that his doctor voice was not going to be enough in this case - Sherlock frequently ignored what was best for his body in the pursuit of knowledge. Then again, he also wasn't big on taking orders.

"Yes, John."

He nodded. "Good. Give me your hand. Doesn't matter which one."

Sherlock raised his right hand, gloveless at this time of night.

"I'm going to take your hand and hold it," John told him. "I know you do handshakes sometimes when you're wearing gloves and even without them if it can't be helped, but you aren't wearing them now and I won't let go."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I am aware."

John took a breath and grasped Sherlock's hand with his own, holding it the same way he would if he were shaking his hand. And just as he had said, he did not let go.

Sherlock's hand was surprisingly warm, his fingers rough and calloused from his violin and the various chemicals he handled. His hand was also much larger than John's and John couldn't help but wonder how his paw would compare if he were to shift. He shook the thought away. Now was not the time.

His Psy was staring down at their clasped hands as if he had never seen them before. His expression was calm enough, however, so John decided he could handle a bit more.

He swiped his thumb over the soft skin on the back of Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock's whole body jerked and he actually jumped back in surprise, breaking the contact.

"Sorry," John said. "Too much?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. No, I just didn't expect ... do it again."

He returned to his previous position and reached for John's hand again.

If John had had any doubts, they vanished at that precise moment. This was Sherlock reaching out for him, actively seeking contact. He would bloody well let him touch John as much and as often as he wished. If it was up to John, no one would ever again deny Sherlock the simple pleasure of touch. He had been denied that long enough.

To his shock, Sherlock promptly returned the caress of thumb on skin as soon as their hands were clasped again.

John took a shuddering breath. It was just his hands, there was nothing sexual about the touch. Rather, it was shockingly innocent, disarmingly so.

"Good?" he asked, then cleared his throat.

Sherlock frowned. "I don't know."

But he didn't let go and John thought that, in a way, that might be answer enough.

"I wish to propose an experiment," Sherlock said.

"Oh?" John said and thought: _'Another one?'_

"I have seen you reaching out for me and drawing your hand back before you could initiate contact a thousand times these past five months. I want you to stop holding back. While we're here in the flat, I want you to take my hand, clap me on the shoulder when I do not expect it, nudge me out of your way, whatever else you can come up with."

 _'Oh that's a dangerous road to go down,'_ John thought. _'I can think of a million things that haven't even occurred to you and your big brain yet.'_

He bit his tongue to keep from saying so and instead said: "Okay. But my rule still holds. If any of that triggers your dissonance, you tell me and we stop. Touch is something to enjoy. If it causes you pain, we're doing it wrong. And it isn't in your best interests to damage your brain, either."

"I concur," Sherlock said seriously. "I promise to inform you if anything triggers the dissonance."

"Okay." John squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Then we have a deal."

They spent the rest of the night playing a children's clapping game to get Sherlock used to casual contact. Trying to deduce when John might try to clasp his hands next kept his mind engaged and John's quicker reflexes evened out the playing field enough to keep it interesting.

He thought it might be the most bizarre night he had ever spent with anyone and that included all the previous five months of living with Sherlock and hunting killers with him.

It appeared that sometimes life was indeed stranger than fiction.

*****

Last night's experiment had gone surprisingly well and Sherlock spent the entirety of the next day contemplating every aspect of it, replaying every word, action and sensation in his head in an attempt to puzzle out what it had felt like.

First, however, he had thrown up another layer of shields around his mind. Keeping all of this out of the PsyNet was paramount. He didn't usually feed any information into the Net anyway, valuing his privacy too much to even participate in the basic gossip of the Net. He knew what was going on, of course, kept up to date with developments in business and Council affairs (as much as possible; they didn't precisely broadcast their doings) and otherwise tried to stay below the radar of others. It had been years since anyone had tried to break through his shields in search of information and Sherlock had since learned a lot of new tricks to keep curious minds out. Anyone trying to break through his shields these days was in for a nasty surprise or two.

Only when he was certain that absolutely nothing of what he and John had done could possibly filter out into the Net did he allow himself to contemplate what had actually happened.

Touch.

He could barely recall the last time anyone had touched him when he didn't have his gloves on. It must have been by accident. Or perhaps a punch to the face.

Gloves were not required clothing, of course - even the Council saw reason in concerns about impracticality and Psy were generally advised to try and keep from touching others either accidentally or on purpose. Only some of the designations habitually wore gloves - usually those gifted in Psychometry, who absorbed information about objects or people by touching them.

Sherlock, on the other hand, wore gloves because he worked in a profession that required him to not leave DNA traces, but also sometimes demanded a handshake. Gloves were a natural solution to both problems and he made a point of wearing them at all times unless it was boiling hot outside.

He disliked having to wear them, however - his tactile sense was well-developed and he processed information better if he touched objects. He didn't get any additional information from touching things, all his abilities being limited to the mind. 9.9 Tk and 3.7 Photographic Deduction left him well equipped for his line of work. The idea of touching a murder weapon and reliving the crime it had been used for was frankly unappealing.

Psychometric Telepathy might have been useful - creating a telepathic link to someone else by touching an object linked to them would certainly be useful when it came to finding murderers, but would also make the work incredibly dull. He much preferred following a clear line of clues to the solution to such tricks that could only be described as cheating.

Sherlock wondered if, had he been born with Psychometric Tp, touching something of John's would have given him access to John's mind, regardless of his natural shields.

Then again - why would he need to? Just touching John already taught him things about him.

The precise temperature of his extremities (37.4°C, warmer than the average human but probably well within range for changelings), the texture of his skin, the speed of his heart beat (Sherlock's hands were larger - it had not been difficult to surreptitiously take John's pulse) and, most interestingly, the effect contact with John had on Sherlock himself.

His conditioning had made alarm bells ring in his head at the initial contact but once he had pushed past that and accepted the touch for what it was (an experiment, not a threat), he had been temporarily overwhelmed by a frisson of warmth that seemed to originate from John's hand and had raced all the way up Sherlock's arm and down his spine. He had managed not to react to it then, but when John had swiped his thumb over Sherlock's skin, the resulting sensation had been much like an electrical shock, causing him to jerk back in surprise.

It hadn't hurt, though. Psy conditioning was highly specific and it made no sense to install a dissonance trigger for such a simple sort of skin contact - in the end, every Psy was liable to end up being touched by a non-Psy at least once in their life and there was no point in triggering a full-blown mental response to accidents. If Psy were seen to exhibit signs of pain at the slightest contact, the humans and changelings might notice and start taking advantage of such an obvious weakness.

Sherlock tried to analyse what John's touch had felt like but quickly found he was lacking the necessary vocabulary to do so. Psy knew how to distinguish joy and sorrow, pain and anger, exhaustion and exhilaration in the other races. Anything that went beyond that left them stumped. Experiencing any of these emotions first-hand was not an option.

He stared down at his hand, wondering at the difference another person's touch could make. Touching inanimate objects had never caused him to react like this and neither had dead bodies.

Sherlock wondered if perhaps the key lay in the consent.

John had willingly touched him and Sherlock had been just as willing in accepting it. Inanimate objects and the dead could not voice objection but neither could they give permission.

 _'Psychology'_ Sherlock thought.

Out loud, he said: "It's not the touch."

John, who was busy preparing a meal in the kitchen, turned towards him. "Come again?"

"It's not the touch," Sherlock repeated. "That's it, isn't it? You don't use touch simply for the sake of contact. It's not the touch, it's what you express with it."

John smiled. "That's right. Very good. Now what do you think we expressed last night?"

Sherlock frowned. Had they expressed something beyond the establishment of the parameters of their experiment? Clearly John thought so. He tried to recall what it had felt like, right there in the moment.

"I can demonstrate again if you like," John said, turning down the hob and coming over. "Here"

He put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gave it a squeeze before moving away.

"You're using different gestures to express the same thing," Sherlock accused him. "That is hardly fair."

"I thought you're the genius here," John challenged him. "Figure it out."

Sherlock huffed but bent his mind back to the task.

John was the one expressing something so perhaps Sherlock should focus on possible meanings behind that touch.

Last night and just now, there had been no hesitation in John's actions beyond concern for his well-being. His touch had been willingly given. Just now, he had squeezed Sherlock's shoulder the same way Sherlock had seen him do with other people John was friendly with. Even he and Lestrade frequently exchanged such gestures. And John had used them on Sherlock without hesitation, as if he didn't care that Sherlock wasn't a fellow changeling or even a human but Psy.

It was as if he just -

Oh.

His eyes flicked to John, surprised.

"Acceptance."

John smiled.

*****

If they continued at this speed, John thought, he might be living with a person capable of understanding basic human interaction by this time next year.

But no, he reminded himself, that was not the objective of this little experiment.

All Sherlock wanted was to become immune to touch and perhaps figure out how it influenced people's thinking. Depending on the dissonance, they could get this done much sooner.

John still had no idea what precisely dissonance was and he really wasn't keen on finding out. The mere idea of it was enough to make him reconsider this whole endeavour, but of course Sherlock had had a point - dissonance would happen every time he experienced touch, so the only way forward was to desensitise himself in the hope of becoming immune over time. At least here in the flat they were in a controlled environment and John could get him used to touch at his own discretion.

Out there ... well, who knew what might happen.

As might have been expected, the next thing that did happen was another murder.

The call came in the early afternoon just as John had finished his lunch and was doing the dishes. He had roped Sherlock into helping and was using that as an excuse to let their fingers brush every time he handed him another plate or piece of cutlery to dry.

By the fifth time he did it, Sherlock no longer flinched. John decided to consider that a step in the right direction.

When his phone rang, Sherlock promptly dropped the dish towel and pulled the device out of his pocket. "Yes?"

Thanks to his sharper hearing, John had no trouble following the full conversation, listening intently to Lestrade's description of the crime scene as he washed the last of the pots and placed them next to the sink to dry off.

By the time Sherlock ended the call, he had already unplugged the sink and was sliding on his jacket, ready to go.

"Hyde Park," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, I heard," John told him. "Changeling hearing, remember."

"More likely the specifics of a cat's hearing," Sherlock commented. "I'm sure there are some changelings whose audio-sensory abilities are not quite so developed."

"Quite likely."

They trooped down the stairs and out into the mild afternoon.

Sherlock flagged down a cab with his usual poise. John had never once seen an unoccupied cabbie ignore Sherlock when he held out his arm. In fact, he was reasonably sure that sometimes even drivers of occupied cabs had to forcibly stop themselves from pulling over.

He wondered if it was something about the way Sherlock stood as if a cab not stopping didn't even occur to him, or if he was subtly manipulating them.

They settled into the back seat and Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Tell me when we arrive," he said. "I'm checking the Net to see if anyone saw anything useful."

When Sherlock was in the Net, he didn't take notice of anything around him. John wanted to ask how he was supposed to alert him - if he touched him in public, someone might notice and then who knew what might happen.

He'd have to settle for saying his name really loudly.

It was a short cab ride to Hyde Park and Sherlock returned to the present with a double-blink.

"Anything?" John asked as they paid and got out of the cab.

"Nothing useful," Sherlock said. "Come on, they're over there."

He entered the park and set off down the path, no doubt following the mental clamour of the Net to its source. Chances were that some of the Psy in the vicinity had already released pictures of what they had seen to the Net.

John wrinkled his nose as they got closer. "I can smell blood. We must be downwind of the crime scene."

He couldn't hear anything specific above the usual noise of people in their vicinity yet.

About five minutes later, they reached the crime scene.

Several of the foxes were already nosing about the area, some in human and others in their changeling form. They greeted John and Sherlock with their usual expressions of respect and mistrust, respectively, before going back to work.

John tipped his head back and yes, there were some large ravens flying surveillance over the area, no doubt keeping an eye out for anyone who was in a suspicious hurry to get away from the crime scene.

Lestrade was waiting for them next to the body, frowning down at the man curled up on the soft grass. Blood dripped from the male's ears and nose. There were no other obvious signs of injury.

"Another one?" John asked, surprised. "That was quick."

"Tell me about it," Lestrade sighed. "It happened about an hour ago. Apparently our vic here was enjoying a leisurely stroll through the park when he suddenly collapsed."

John sniffed. "Smells like another bird changeling."

"We don't know which wing yet," Lestrade told him. "We should really make identification badges a thing. _'If you're in your human shape, please carry this identification mark with you at all times'_."

John snorted. "You and I both know why that idea never took off. They wanted us to have them in the Army, too, but what's the point in carrying anything if your clothes disintegrate every time you shift? They even considered tattoos but even they have to be specially modified to get them to survive a shift. No one was keen on a permanent mark, understandably."

Lestrade grimaced. "Tell me about it. My sister is covered in tattoos. Looks amazing but it took ages to make them permanent."

While they were talking, Sherlock had already slipped on a pair of gloves and was carefully examining the body.

"Psy hit," he concluded to no-one's surprise. "Same as the other one."

Lestrade cursed. "Anything else?"

Sherlock shook his head. "The killer won't have left any traces on the body - we already know he doesn't require physical contact."

"Can't imagine a Psy touching someone, even if it was to kill them," Lestrade said. "So that's not much of a shocker."

John had to bite his tongue to refrain from commenting but Sherlock had no such qualms.

"There are several Psy designations that have to initiate physical contact for their power to work. Most of the Psychometry skill set is firmly linked to contact."

He frowned. "But none of these skill sets would have caused this unless the Psy in question can cause brain haemorrhages just through their touch. Anyway, we know that isn't what happened. No one touched the Dove in the Tube and he still collapsed much like this one did."

"You sound awfully sure," Lestrade noted, crossing his arms. "What aren't you telling me?"

"There are ... videos on the Net," Sherlock said, hesitating at the word 'video'.

"Memories, you mean," Lestrade growled. "I'm not stupid. It's a mental network, everything you 'upload' is something you have seen or heard."

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed.

"So can you tell who uploaded these memories?"

"I could if it was necessary. But I can tell you that the murderer wasn't one of them."

"How?"

"Well anyone wanting not to be noticed would be an idiot to draw attention to themselves in such a way, wouldn't they? Apart from that, all the memories of the incident that I found were from different angles and distances. There were at least four individuals who witnessed it happen and all of them can be seen over there." He nodded towards a group of people. They stood out from the crowd of curious onlookers - none of them were gawking or showing signs of even mild interest. They looked utterly unaffected. One was scrolling through his datapad as if it was pure coincidence that he was standing close to an active crime scene.

"What are they doing?" Lestrade demanded, hackles rising.

"Waiting to be interviewed by the police, of course," Sherlock told him with a shrug. "They witnessed a crime. It is therefore their duty to report to a member of law enforcement and give a statement. Stroke of luck, actually. You couldn't find a more objective witness."

"Fine." Lestrade relaxed a little and called one of his officers. The young man jogged over to them.

"I want you to take the names and statements of the four Psy over there. Remember to thank them for their cooperation and so on and so forth. And try to keep the animosity to a minimum."

"Yes, Sir," the officer said unhappily and went to do as he had been told.

"Impressive," John remarked. "He actually managed not to growl."

Lestrade grinned. "He knows better."

"Any news on the victim?" Sherlock asked. "It's been at least ten minutes since I last asked, someone must have found out something by now."

"And will his identity give you anything else to work with?" John asked. "We already know he was definitely a bird changeling - I can smell the feathers on him even now - and our previous vic was a dove."

Sherlock nodded. "It does have all the appearance of someone targeting bird changelings in particular."

"Perhaps afraid of what they might see passing overhead?"

"The killer would need to know how to differentiate not only between changelings but also between changelings in their human and animal form. To see a Dove flying over you and to then find the changeling in question is a tall order."

John nodded in agreement. "Even for a changeling it's close to impossible. Members of the same pack know each other by sight and scent, of course, but I'm not sure how well that would work for the birds. You'd have to ask Sergeant Donovan if she could match a changeling bird who wasn't part of her wing to a changeling in his human form if she saw him on the street."

"Not unless I already knew them before then and had seen them in both shapes," Donovan herself said, stepping closer with her datapad in her hand.

"Victim was a Swan changeling, part of WhiteDrifter. They're located on the other side of the park, so I assume he was on his way to or from home. Name is Tilo Winters."

Lestrade shook his head. "Never heard of him. John?"

"Nope."

Sherlock frowned. "Even changelings can't possibly know every other changeling in this city."

"Of course not. But we know many of them. The loud ones, the trouble-makers, the alphas and their top soldiers. If we don't know someone, it's because they stayed under the radar, led a quiet life."

"Or were very good at hiding," Sherlock added.

Lestrade tilted his head. "Fair point."

"Either way, it is too soon to speculate on a possible motive. Psy do not usually associate with changelings outside of business deals. If this is about a deal that went wrong, we would already know about it. A Psy company entering into a business deal with a changeling enterprise would definitely be cause for comment. When Nikita Duncan made a deal with the DarkRiver leopards in San Francisco, it was all over the Net within hours."

"Isn't that the Psy Councillor whose daughter mated to the DarkRiver alpha?" Donovan chimed in. "When was that, 2079? So about two years ago?"

John gaped at her. "Two years?"

"You really were out of the loop in Afghanistan," Lestrade commented, shaking his head mournfully. "I hear they even have a cub."

John laughed incredulously. "You're kidding me."

"Nope. One daughter, born a couple of months ago."

"Greg, I think we need to go for a pint tonight so you can fill me in on all the gossip I missed. I spoke to some friends from WhiteSpot two nights ago and they didn't mention a cub."

"Yes, yes, all of this is fascinating, I'm sure," Sherlock interrupted. "Can we get back to the case now?"

John laughed. "I was wondering how much of that you would be able to stand. Fine. Deduce away."

Sherlock gave him a blank stare before crouching down beside the body.

"He worked as a security guard at the public pool in Soho. No wedding ring, but that doesn't mean much to changelings, does it?"

John shook his head. "Mating ceremonies don't have to include rings, though some couples like to use them anyway."

A quick nod and a double-blink as Sherlock filed the information away before continuing. "Judging from his clothing and the faint smell of bleach, he was on his way home from work."

"More like a cloying stink, but go on," Lestrade muttered, wrinkling his nose.

Sherlock shot him an exasperated look. "Well if you can smell it for yourself, why do I have to explain it to you?"

"Because to us he always smells of bleach," John explained before Lestrade could snarl back. "He must have been working there for years, the scent is integrated in his skin now. If it seems fresh to you, it confirms that he was on his way home. To us, he just smells like someone who spends a lot of time surrounded by bleach."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said and John watched Donovan's jaw drop. "That was a most helpful explanation. I shall keep in mind that your sense of smell can sometimes be a hindrance."

"Not quite what I was getting at but okay," John sighed. "Can we go home now?"

Sherlock nodded. "I've seen everything I needed to see. Lestrade, forward me the witness statements."

"I thought you already know what they saw from the Net."

"Indeed. And once I've read their statements, I will be able to tell you if they left anything out and if so, what. Come along, John."

They left.

 


	8. Chapter 7

An hour and a quick stop at Tesco later, they were back in the flat. By now, John was used to the odd looks he got when he walked down the aisles with his shopping basket on his arm and a bored Psy trailing after him, looking as out of place as a banana in a basket full of strawberries. Sherlock didn't usually accompany him but when he did, the reactions were always the same. At least this time he hadn't made John explain why there were twelve different kinds of breakfast cereals.

He had made Sherlock carry some of the groceries, however, and wasn't the least bit surprised when the bloody Psy had levitated them along, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his expression nonchalant.

"Since you are already showing off, care to also store them away?" John asked as they entered their kitchen. "Bread goes over there, the rest belongs in the fridge."

He had to duck out of the way to avoid getting hit in the face by a flying loaf of bread and turned to glare at his flatmate. "You did that on purpose."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Where is your proof?"

"I don't need any," John said. "I know you and I know how you think. And that means I can do _this_ in retaliation."

He reached out and brushed the back of his hand very gently along Sherlock's left cheekbone.

A package of carrots, the only thing that hadn't been stored away by then, fell to the floor.

John smirked. "Don't challenge me to a game you can't win, Sherlock."

He whistled as he walked into their sitting room, leaving his Psy to recover from his surprise and deal with the carrots.

*****

John did meet up with Lestrade for a pint in the evening. They found a table in one of the dark corners and sat across from each other with their pints, leaning in close as Lestrade relayed what knowledge he had about what was happening across the Atlantic in hushed tones.

"We hear things in law enforcement that you lot usually don't get. You think the pack grapevines are good because you've never heard coppers gossip."

"I thought there are no changelings working for the police over there," John said, frowning.

Lestrade shrugged. "Not in any official capacity, of course. Can't be mind-controlled by the Psy so they're not too keen on having us involved in law enforcement. We're lucky it didn't work out that way over here. They tried to push us out, of course, but we didn't have the Territorial Wars and managed to present a united front. Heaven knows where we'd be otherwise."

He took a sip of his pint. "Anyway, I have some human contacts overseas and we have a line of communication with some of the packs over there. DarkRiver and SnowDancer are massive, they have lots of people roaming at all times. Believe me, they know more about what happens in this world than most of us do."

John pursed his lips. "They wouldn't go around sharing that information though, would they?"

"Only if they thought it might turn out useful for them," the DI said, grinning in a rather predatory manner. "Can't blame them. The Council has it out for them, John. There have been outright attacks. Armed forces and missiles, from what I heard. And the packs won that round, so the Council has backed off a bit but you can bet they're keeping a close eye on the situation. Gives everyone else a bit of breathing space for now."

"But if anyone else were to cause trouble-" John began.

Lestrade nodded gloomily. "The Council would come down on them like a ton of bricks."

John swallowed and thought of Sherlock and forbidden touches. Yes, the Psy Council, the closest thing they had to a global government, would definitely see that as an outright act of rebellion. Yet another reason to keep this under the lid. He would have liked to discuss it with someone but he'd rather rip out his own tongue than put Sherlock in that kind of danger.

Perhaps Lestrade sensed his deteriorating mood because he dropped the subject and turned the conversation to some of his own pack's antics, regaling John with stories of misbehaving juveniles and the challenges of balancing pack life and the job.

"... and I'm going to take some of the older juveniles out running over the weekend, give them a bit of an exercise, let them explore the forest. You could come, if you like. Bet the youngsters would love comparing themselves to a cat."

John couldn't help the pleased little flutter in his chest at the invitation. It was a sign of trust that Lestrade had thought to invite him to something involving the pack's children.

"Thanks Greg. It sounds like a fun outing and I'd love to, but," he hesitated, not sure how to put it. "I don't ..."

"You know you're always welcome, right?" Lestrade said, misunderstanding John's hesitation. "With the number of times you've patched up my officers, no one would bat an eye."

John shook his head. "No, I just ... I don't do that anymore."

"Do what? Go for a run? You need to get out of the city every now and then, John. Stretch your legs a litt-"

"Shifting," John interrupted. "I don't ... shift ... anymore."

Lestrade gaped at him. "John..."

He forced a crooked smile onto his face. "Afghanistan... wasn't good, Greg. And people keep telling me I need to shift, as if I didn't know, but I don't trust myself anymore. And I refuse to put anyone at risk over it. So I thank you for the invitation but I have to decline. I don't want to put any of your juveniles in harm's way."

Something in his eyes must have communicated his desperate wish for Lestrade to let it go because the DI did, albeit clearly reluctantly. "All right. But if you change your mind, you just let me know." He forced a grin. "Will you at least tell me what you are? I know Sherlock doesn't know and it's driving him mental."

John laughed. "No chance. What you don't know he can't weasle out of you."

Lestrade accepted that with a genial shrug. Changelings could be cagey about how much of themselves they revealed to others and it wasn't good form to push the matter.

Instead, they talked about sports and about Sherlock's more bizarre experiments with corrosive acids.

"You going to catch a cab?" John asked as they stepped outside a while later.

Lestrade tipped his head back, sniffing the warm air. "Nah. It's a beautiful night. Think I'll just run home, actually. Care to take my clothes for me?"

"Sure."

They turned a corner and Lestrade divested himself of his outerwear, handing his clothes to John until he was left in only his pants. "Thanks mate. I'll have someone collect them tomorrow if I can't do it myself."

"Don't mention it," John said, folding the clothes carefully over his arm and grabbing Lestrade's shoes with his free hand. "Night, Greg."

"Good night."

John left the alley to flag down a cab. When he turned to look down the street, a large, beautiful silver fox had stopped at a corner and was looking back at him. Lestrade flicked his ear before disappearing into the night and John squashed down the ache in his chest. Lestrade might be going home in his changeling form but John was going home to Sherlock. And although he'd never say it out loud, he preferred it that way.

*****

They continued their experiment that night once John made it home from the pub. This time, they clasped both hands. John could see his friend's entire body shudder and had to suppress the sick feeling in his stomach that the reaction caused.

No one should react like that to something as simple as someone else holding their hand. The very idea was as alien to him as emotion was to a Psy.

"Okay?" he asked once the shudder had passed.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Yes. No dissonance."

"Not the only thing I'm worried about here," John said. "But good to know. Get ready."

He could actually see Sherlock bracing himself and it was both sad and heartening.

John swiped both thumbs over the backs of Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock gasped and the shudder lasted much longer this time, his entire body shaking as if he was coming down from a massive adrenalin spike. His expression twisted and he looked like someone fending off a migraine.

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"What does dissonance do to you?"

But he merely shook his head, tightened his grip around John's hands, and didn't reply.

"Is this something you can't or won't tell me?" John asked, now really getting worried about this entire thing.

"Can't," Sherlock gasped. "It's part of t-the conditioning."

The slight stutter revealed more about his current state than he had probably intended.

John let go of his hands and sat back. "Please don't get yourself killed."

Sherlock shook his head, looking a bit better now that they were no longer touching. "It won't kill me. If Psy dropped dead every time someone touched them for more than a couple of seconds, we'd be very rare indeed by now."

"Ha. True. I'm sure there are a lot of people who would like to see you gone."

Sherlock shrugged. "Our mental abilities have so far kept us safe. We may not be as physically resilient as a human, never mind a changeling, but neither of you possess or use telepathy."

"Or any of the other crazy shit you can do."

"Indeed."

They looked at each other and John found himself wishing Sherlock would smile. Not the fake smile he sometimes put on in an attempt to make clients feel at ease - that one always looked a bit shark-like and didn't put anyone at ease unless they were lucky enough not to see it. He wanted to see a real smile. He thought he might have seen a glimpse of it once and it was stuck in his brain. The full-blown version might bring him to his knees, he thought.

But Sherlock blinked and leaned back and the moment passed.

"I did manage to keep in contact for longer this time," he mused. "A full twenty-five seconds, I believe, and only because you pulled away. It seems I was correct and that further exposure will desensitise me to touch."

"Not quite the word I would use," John told him. "The very point of touch is sensation. You might get used to it and able to handle it, but you will not be desensitised."

Sherlock nodded. "I accept your argument. We will see if it will prove valid."

John grinned. "This is a bet you are going to lose."

"I do not bet."

"And yet you constantly make claims that make people want to bet against you."

They held each other's gaze for another infinite moment.

This time, John was the first to look away. There was only so much time he could spend staring into Sherlock's iridescent eyes without wanting to drag him off to his lair and ravish him.

He swallowed, for once glad that Sherlock had no idea how to read emotions, otherwise he would have read the desire right off his face. And these days, with the added knowledge of what Sherlock's skin felt like under his hands, it was getting increasingly difficult to pretend he didn't feel that desire. He wanted to drag this infuriating Psy up to his bedroom and not let him go until he was absolutely drenched in touch, until he had John's scent all over him, until it soaked into his skin and stayed there.

John swallowed again, hoping like hell that Sherlock really couldn't read his mind.

He searched for something, anything, to say that would serve as a change of topic, and remembered a question that had occurred to him earlier.

"Can other Psy tell if you're experiencing dissonance?"

Sherlock frowned. "What makes you ask that?"

John shrugged. "You're all connected in the PsyNet, yes? Mind to mind? Wouldn't dissonance, which seems to happen in your head, have a ripple effect or at least be noticeable to others in the Net?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. That's what our mental shields are for. I have been adding to my shielding since we started this. If the Council found out ..."

He trailed off but John didn't need him to finish the sentence to know. The Council would kill them both.

"I don't understand," he admitted. "If anyone finding out is so bad, wouldn't it be better for you to just drop out of the Net?"

Sherlock was already shaking his head again. "I can't, John."

"I get that it's super useful for sharing information quickly and so on, but surely at this point the risk outweighs the advantages."

He thought he saw something like realisation flash across Sherlock's features. "Oh," he said. "You don't know."

"Know what?" John asked, confused.

"I can't drop out, John. I don't mean I don't want to. I mean _I can't do it_. Well, technically it's possible, for, oh, about five seconds perhaps. The Net provides us with a steady exchange of biofeedback. Without it, any Psy will die in excruciating agony within moments. We're connected to it from the moment of our birth and we cannot ever leave and survive."

John stared at him, feeling the cold horror wash through his entire being. He had been right in his rant about the dissonance. The PsyCouncil truly had enslaved an entire race and sentenced them to a choice between compliance with Silence and death.

"But ... Sasha Duncan and Faith Nightstar dropped out of the Net, didn't they? Everyone says so."

Sherlock nodded and stepped away to start pacing. "Yes. To sever the link is almost impossible even if you are willing to die and yet they both did it without any apparent adverse effects. I wish I knew how they managed it."

His frustration was evident to John - and it was all the evidence he needed to know that Sherlock had already spent considerable time thinking about it. And if anyone was clever enough to find a loophole, surely it was Sherlock.

So John swallowed his anger and outrage and told himself that there was still hope.

*****

The next day found them standing at another crime scene in the early morning hours, surrounded by police and more witnesses than they knew what to do with. The victim had collapsed in the middle of Waterloo station during the early morning rush hour.

Despite that, no one had seen or smelled or otherwise sensed anything useful. Finding the culprit on CCTV was as pointless as their attempt on the Tube CCTV tapes had been. There was clearly no need for physical contact and they hadn't yet figured out the maximum range possible, so the killer could have been literally anywhere within the station, which made finding them even more difficult.

Identifying the victim, however, was easier than John would have liked.

He and Sherlock arrived at the crime scene within an hour of Lestrade's call, the typical London traffic having done its best to delay them. John took one look at the body and drew in an audible breath. "Shit."

Lestrade looked up. "You know her?"

"That's Soraya. Ocelot from the WhiteSpot pack in Camberwell. I went to medical school with their pack healer and another pack member."

The DI nodded. "Do you get along?"

John shrugged. "We're friendly. I happened to meet them at a pub a couple of nights ago. Not Soraya, though. I haven't seen her in a couple of years."

"Anything we need to know?"

"She's mated."

Lestrade and every other changeling's face in the vicinity tightened with grief.

Sherlock, who was already crouched beside the body to confirm what they all suspected, looked up in confusion. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Means we're looking at two victims," Lestrade said gruffly, shaking his head. "Bloody hell."

When Sherlock continued to look confused, John sighed and crouched down next to him, lowering his voice to explain. "A Changeling mating bond is for life, you know that. If one partner dies and there are no young children that need them, the mate will likely die as well, either at almost the same time or soon afterwards."

Sherlock frowned. "That is highly inefficient and utterly pointless."

"The mating bond isn't something as benign as a marriage contract," John told him quietly, his voice urgent. "It's so much more than that. You feel your partner's pain, their joy, their love, their sadness and anger and you can soothe them even from a distance. Mates will know if the other has been hurt or is in danger and Soraya's mate will have ... have felt her die. I'm sure the pack is already searching for her."

He turned to Lestrade. "Perhaps you should call the Yard, ask if the WhiteSpot alpha called. His name is Rafe and he will have known that something happened the moment she died."

Lestrade nodded and pulled out his phone to follow the suggestion.

He hung up several minutes later, nodding. "Just as you said. I spoke to Rafe and informed him about Soraya - not that he needed much telling, mind. Her mate Duncan passed away forty minutes ago after collapsing during breakfast with other pack members."

John sighed. "Well, we guessed as much. The pack will demand retaliation. They lost two of their own."

Lestrade groaned. "This is why we have a contract between all the London packs. If more than one pack is affected by a crime, DuskKeeper has jurisdiction. Thank god. Otherwise we'd have a pack war on our hands every other week."

Changeling law was clear-cut and uncomplicated. If there was a crime, the victim's family or - in the absence of blood relatives - any member of the victim's pack was judge, jury and executioner in one. And in the case of predatory changelings, executioners were literally that. Predatory changelings did not believe in mercy. If a member of their pack was killed or injured, retribution would be swift and violent and completely legal.

With three races as different as changelings, humans and Psy, the law had to be adjusted and the general rule was that the law of the victim's race applied. To avoid arguments, any humans mated into changeling packs fell under changeling law.

"That's the third changeling this Psy has killed. Whoever he is, we'll hunt him down," Lestrade said firmly.

"What type of changeling did you say it was, John?" Sherlock asked. "Ocelot?"

"Yes," John confirmed, looking down at Soraya and feeling his claws prick at his fingertips, threatening to burst through as he fought the urge to tear someone to shreds for this. "Why do you ask?"

"It means we can exclude a prejudice against bird changelings from our list of possible motives," Sherlock said, remaining calm and collected as the changelings around him struggled with the death of a young mated couple. John wondered if perhaps being able not to feel might have its advantages. He certainly wished he could spare himself the pain of potentially having to face Tyson and Emily with no answers to their questions. Tyson would be devastated - he and Soraya had grown up together and been close friends all their lives.

"Is there anything else we can do here?" he asked Sherlock. "Can you find any sign of who did this?"

Sherlock shook his head. "There are too many people passing through here every day, too much data. And he didn't have to be close to her, he could have been anywhere. Just another commuter on his way to work. We will not find any answers here."

John nodded. "Then let's get out of here. Perhaps Molly will have more information after the autopsy."

"Doubtful," Sherlock said. "She hasn't found anything helpful so far, but we didn't really expect her to, either. Perhaps another avenue of enquiry will open up for us to explore."

"Have you started verifying the whereabouts of the Psy on that list you got?" John asked as they left the station and flagged down a cab to take them home.

Sherlock nodded. "I started to but there hasn't been much progress yet. Several have a sub-skill in teleporting and are notoriously difficult to pin down and even those who can't teleport are hard to find. Psy adhere to regular schedules and all of them will have been at work, but most of the murders appear to have happened either during rush hour or lunch time, so there is no way of proving they weren't where they were supposed to be."

He frowned. "There is also a possibility that some of the stronger ones are not present on the list. I shall have to speak to my brother."

John blinked at him. "Why would they not be on the list?"

But Sherlock shook his head and didn't reply. Clearly this was one of those Psy things he wasn't keen on becoming general knowledge. John chose to let it go. For now.

*****

The returned home in silence. This was not unusual but something about it seemed different and Sherlock kept a wary eye on John.

His flatmate was a different kind of quiet to his normal self. An unsettling quiet. It was the kind of quiet that happened just before he became violent. If ever there was a warning sign he had learned to pay attention to, this kind of quiet was it. This was the silence before John pulled out a gun even Sherlock hadn't known he had and shot someone straight in the heart, through two windows. This was the silence that came just after John tilted up his chin in a clear challenge and just before he punched someone with far more strength than his appearance suggested.

In moments like this, when John got very quiet with fury, Sherlock thought that whatever his flatmate looked like in his other form, he must surely be the most magnificent creature on Earth. He wondered how much longer he would have to wait to see it.

He thought about John's hands on his own, a gesture both ridiculously simple and unimaginably dangerous, and wondered about what it would be like to reach out and stroke thick fur, to feel powerful muscles tense and relax under his hand, to learn the shape of tendons and bones through touch alone.

Blinking, he shook his head. This was a dangerous line of thought indeed. He knew the word associated with this particular curiosity: temptation. Therein lay the road to madness and he must not succumb, lest he risk not only his mental equanimity but also his life.

He waited until they were safely back inside their flat before breaking the heavy silence.

"You are upset."

For once, John's response was neither surprised nor sarcastic. "Yes."

Sherlock nodded to himself. "This changeling's death upsets you. You knew her and you are angry."

"Bloody furious, more like, but yes."

Sherlock filed that information away. "And hurt. You have not spoken to her in years, yet you are grieving. Why?"

John frowned and turned towards him. "What do you mean, why?"

"She was no packmate of yours, no family member. Neither was her mate. Yet you are grieving for them. Their death hurts you. Why?"

"Because this is what people do when they feel things," John told him. "We like our friends and we feel close to them even if we do not see them for some time or even speak to them. But in the end, if she had called me out of the blue to ask me a favour or request a meeting, I would have come. And she would have done the same for me. So yes, I'm sad. And if I get my hands on whoever is responsible for her death, Lestrade and his lot will be the least of his problems."

Sherlock tilted his head. "You would kill her murderer?"

John's smile could only be called that because humans didn't usually bare their teeth for any other reason. "No. I would drag him straight to her pack, no matter how far it was or how much he bled on the way there."

He was tense and for all his talk about violence, Sherlock could tell he was hurting. He supposed that said less about his meagre grasp of empathy and more about how utterly obvious John's emotions were.

Sherlock recalled the way John would sometimes reach out for him when he got frustrated by a case, when the tension rose and he hunched his shoulders without quite noticing. He recalled how, before their recent agreement, John had always snatched his hand away.

Changelings used touch to communicate as much as words, perhaps even more so. And John, who was as taciturn when it came to voicing his emotions as any other British male Sherlock had ever met, used touch to give comfort in the only way he could.

Decision made, Sherlock stepped closer and carefully rested a hand between John's shoulder blades.

He didn't know if there was anything else that was required but surely John would understand the gesture and how it was meant - probably more so than Sherlock himself did.

John flinched at the first contact, clearly not having expected it, but before Sherlock could withdraw his hand, John's shoulders dropped a little and he let out a quiet breath, leaning into Sherlock's touch. "Thank you. I needed that."

Sherlock decided he was allowed to be pleased with himself for having correctly deduced this. Clearly his experiment in touch was already yielding results.

After a moment, John turned around to face him and Sherlock dropped his hand, somehow sure that letting it trail across John's chest would have an entirely different meaning. He rather suspected it might be more intimate than was allowed. Of course, if you chose to be fastidious about it, he was not allowed any of this. Considering how excited the changeling population seemed about the mating of two Psy women to members of one of the strongest packs in America, Sherlock suspected that the Council would not much like the thought of a Psy-changeling flat-share such as his and John's. Clearly prolonged exposure to changelings was dangerous.

The moment he framed his situation in these words, he realised he had already taken the first steps into the trap. His experiment in touch was nothing less than a breach of the Protocol, a deliberate and explicit breaking of the rules that upheld Psy society.

He watched the confusing play of emotions on John's face, observed that some of the tension and helpless fury seemed to have left him, and decided that that was worth breaking the rules. In fact, given the choice, he would do so all over again.

Sherlock rather thought that this might be the most dangerous decision of all.

 


	9. Chapter 8

Sherlock left the flat less than an hour after they had concluded their impromptu touch session. Given his realisation about the possible side effects of his experiment, he thought it prudent to put a bit of distance between himself and John. After nearly six months of sharing a flat, he was too used to being around him, too attuned to each and every one of John's movements, his moods, the sounds he made, the easy way he talked to Sherlock as if he was just another person, as if they shared an emotional bond of sorts. It was too easy to believe it, too easy to start thinking that perhaps they did. That perhaps they could.

So, distance.

Temporarily, of course. Even Sherlock couldn't delude himself into thinking that he would not seek John's presence again after a couple of hours.

For now, though, he sought refuge in St. Bart's hospital and the cool quiet of the morgue.

He spent a peaceful hour examining the murder victims' brain tissue samples Molly had set aside for him, quite deliberately choosing not to wonder when she had become so attuned to his habits and methods to take second samples of everything for his benefit. They had even been labelled "for use by Sherlock Holmes".

She had even left the brain scan images for him to find. They didn't show anything he hadn't already suspected. Whoever was responsible for the attacks, they had been powerful and brutal - a dangerous combination in any circumstance.

Looking at the images and examining the samples, Sherlock couldn't help but wonder if this was what a Psy's brain might look like if the dissonance killed them. He hoped he would never have cause to find out. The risk was there, though, and growing with every day and every touch he and John shared.

 _'Well,'_ he found himself thinking. _'If this is what kills me, I won't regret a thing.'_

He quickly checked his shields again, which by now had become a daily habit. If his brother or the Council found out about what he was doing, the dissonance would be the least of his problems.

Sherlock wondered if perhaps he should start a new avenue of research, provided he found a way to do so without anyone finding out about it. It seemed increasingly likely that a certain type of knowledge might soon be beneficial to his continued survival. Perhaps he could find a way to contact Sasha Duncan. But first he had a murder to solve and a serial killer to catch.

*****

Sherlock was engrossed in a thorough cross-examination of the tissue samples when the lab door opened and Molly entered. She gasped when she saw him sitting at the microscope and did a poor job of hiding her surprise, hands fluttering aimlessly for a second or two before she remembered herself and forced the cool mask of Silence across her features.

It was an impressive display of acting skill. Sherlock, of course, found it entirely unconvincing. He wondered if she ever managed to fool anyone and supposed she must, seeing as she was still here and continuing her work. As far as he knew, no one had ever uttered any suspicious comments about Dr Hooper's shaky grip on her Silence. Now that he thought about it, it was quite possible his brother was quietly turning enquiring minds another way, having compared the value of an ally for Sherlock with the crime of one largely unimportant Psy breaking Silence and chosen in Sherlock's best interests. It irked Sherlock that his brother was meddling with his life, but he couldn't quite bring himself to resent the fact, having come to the same conclusion as Mycroft likely had - having Molly as an ally was worth more than fighting his brother on principle.

"Hello," Molly said, a little too loud to seem casual. "I didn't expect you."

"Clearly," Sherlock muttered, then raised his voice a little. "Thank you for preparing these samples for me, Molly. It was ... quite helpful."

She turned away, no doubt to hide her blush, and Sherlock wondered how much time Mycroft spent on keeping her safe. He frowned. Perhaps she could offer a different perspective on his unique problem.

"Molly?"

"Yes?"

"Do you feel burdened by your emotions?"

She blinked, then attempted to look mildly confused. "I'm Psy, just like you," she said and her voice was remarkably calm. "I do not have emotions."

He had to hand it to her - it was a masterful display.

"Yes, yes, quite so. But seeing as we are amongst ourselves and we both know there is a difference between who you are and who you are supposed to be, don't bother lying and answer the question."

She eyed him carefully, clearly worried this was going to turn out badly for her, so he added: "I promise nothing you say will leave this room or end up on the Net."

Molly relaxed a little and glanced furtively at the door to check it really was completely shut, then moved closer to where he sat. "Why do you ask?"

"Why do I do anything?" he evaded. "Curiosity." At least it wasn't a complete lie.

She sat on a chair opposite him and fidgeted a little. "I don't feel burdened by my emotions," she finally said. "Only by having to hide their existence."

Sherlock nodded. "Did the conditioning simply fail or did it never take hold in the way it should have done?"

She shrugged - an unusual gesture for a Psy. Sherlock had trained himself to do it on occasion but he had never seen it from another Psy. "Both, I think. I had basic conditioning when I was a child, but even then I was never as Silent as I should have been. It kept failing and they finally decided I could not be properly conditioned. They considered rehabilitation but I was too young and then they discovered the tweak to my M-ability and that was that."

He nodded again. Molly was an M-Psy, a member of the medical designation. Most of them worked as doctors or researchers in medical facilities, but Molly was one of the few who worked with dead bodies - a unique twist to her gift had given her the ability to determine a person's exact time and cause of death before she even cut the body open. It saved valuable time and significantly lowered the number of murders written off as suicides in London. Molly or one of her few colleagues was called upon to determine the precise cause of death of high-profile members of the public, such as Councillors, who were especially liable to die under mysterious circumstances. Of course the Council would leave her well alone - better to have a badly conditioned Psy than to lose her ability altogether. For once, Mycroft's more personal attention wasn't needed.

Unaware of his thoughts, Molly spoke on. "- so it all worked out for the best, really. I can do the work I am good at, in a field I excel at, and the dead don't care whether I am Silent or not." She paused for breath, then asked: "Why did you ask? Are you-?"

"I'm fine," he said firmly. "I was merely curious. Sentiment seems to have too many negative side effects to be of any use. Did you know changelings die when their mate dies? How can this be beneficial to the survival of the species? It is utterly nonsensical."

Molly smiled - a thoroughly unfamiliar expression to see on the face of a Psy. "Are you worried John will find a mate and lose them?"

Sherlock blinked, confused. "No, why would I be? What has John got to do with any of this?"

She shrugged. "You mentioned changelings. I just assumed he would be on your mind."

Had he been? Sherlock frowned, trying to backtrack on his own thoughts. Had he subconsciously been thinking about John? Certainly the idea of John dying was ... distasteful. He would have to find another flatmate, for one thing, and the Yarders would get on his nerves about it with thinly veiled comments on who might be responsible and that it had only been a matter of time. And of course ... well, he would no longer have John.

He shied away from the thought, circling it like a snake he had found on his path, not sure if and when it might strike or what would happen if it did. Perhaps this was something to consider later, in the privacy of his home.

Something else occurred to him and he asked the question more to distract Molly from her course of enquiry than because he really wanted to.

"Do you ever get touched by people?"

She blushed. "Touched?"

"Touched, yes. Do people ever shake your hand, pat your shoulder or whatever else changelings and humans are so keen on doing?"

Molly shrugged. "Most of them keep their distance. They know Psy don't wish to be touched and I prefer not to shout my differences from the rooftops. The council is turning a blind eye so long as I am useful and keep quiet, but I do not know if they will continue to do so if I draw too much attention to myself."

Sherlock nodded. "I could have a word with John, if you like," he offered awkwardly, unsure how to handle this. "I have come to understand that changelings rely on using touch to communicate affection and friendship. He considers you a friend and his ability to express this may be beneficial to you both."

Perhaps it was something in his face or the way he sat, perhaps it was his choice of words or a combination of all of this. Either way, Molly cocked her head and asked quietly: "Does John touch _you_?"

He barely hesitated before replying. "On occasion, yes. We share a flat, Molly, it can hardly be avoided."

"And you _let_ him?"

"Again, we share a flat. Getting into an argument with my flatmate every time he is overcome by his nature and forgets mine in the process would hardly be beneficial."

Molly nodded. "Did you explain it to him? The dissonance?"

Sherlock turned and looked at her. Dissonance was not part of the ordinary Psy conditioning. Most of them didn't need the pain triggers to keep their powers in check.

"I'm an M-Psy," she reminded him patiently. "Dealing with the side effects of dissonance is part of our medical training."

"I have made him aware of the situation, yes," he conceded. "John knows there are ... adverse effects to being touched for me. He is trying to avoid triggering those but sometimes it cannot be helped."

Again, something about the way he spoke must have tipped her off. He sometimes forgot how perceptive Molly was.

"You like it," she concluded. "You like it when he touches you. You let him do it and you tell yourself you are only placating your flatmate for your own benefit, but you know you're lying to yourself."

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm not lying to anybody, Molly."

She smiled. "If you ever need medical attention to help with the dissonance, do let me know. We might find a way to disable it."

He stared at her, surprised, and she shrugged again. "I am not Silent, Sherlock. Just because you are trying to hold on to the protocol doesn't mean I don't consider you a friend. So if you ever need anything, all you have to do is ask and I will do my best to help you however I can. And if you ever break Silence, remember there are others like us out there. We are by far not the first and I doubt we will be the last. In the meantime, try not to get brain-damage while defying the Council."

She got up and left the lab without giving him a chance to reply. For once, Sherlock was glad for it - he had no idea what his response would have been.

*****

In what was becoming a predictable pattern, they continued their experiment that night, after Sherlock came home from the lab.

John eyed him cautiously, his claws itching to break through his skin. Something had worried Sherlock. He didn't know what it was but he could sense it well enough. By now, he knew that anything that worried Sherlock should definitely worry him as well.

"Everything all right?" he asked as soon as they had closed the curtains and locked the doors for their now usual evening activity.

Sherlock gave a dismissive shrug. "Yes of course."

"You spoke to Molly. At length."

Seeing Sherlock's raised eyebrow, he smiled tightly. "I can smell her on you."

There was a growl in his voice and he knew he should apologise but his cat was too close to his skin and hating the scent of someone else on his Sherlock.

The possessive edge to that thought would have made him balk even a month ago, but now there was too much between them, too many touches and uncharted waters for John to see Sherlock as anything else. His cat had laid its claim and his human side was no less intent on what it wanted.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, he stepped closer to Sherlock and reached out, the gesture unthinking, to wrap one hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and pull him down so he could press his nose to the Psy's throat and just breathe.

Sherlock gasped in surprise but followed his lead, bending down rather than flinching away. He was tense, as he should be with a powerful predator's hand gripping his neck, but he made no move to defend himself. In fact, it didn't seem to occur to him that he should or that any other person would.

John took a moment to breathe in the now familiar scent of wool and leather, of rosin and musk and rain and formaldehyde. It calmed him and his cat, making his muscles relax. Unconsciously, a low rumbling started deep in his chest. The larger cats couldn't actually purr but this was the closest approximation he was capable of.

He could hear the shuddering breath Sherlock took as it travelled down his windpipe, could smell the sudden spike in hormones that all the Silence in the world could not influence, and before he knew what he was doing, John opened his mouth and licked a long stripe up Sherlock's pale throat.

The breath his Psy had just drawn whooshed out of him rather shakily and he gasped again. "John?"

Blinking, he let go of Sherlock's neck and stepped back. "Sorry. I don't know what that was ..."

"You know exactly what that was," Sherlock contradicted him immediately. He didn't sound too put out, though. "I'd like to know what brought this on, however."

John shook his head. "You did. I'm sorry, this wasn't my intention. You're just so ..." He waved a hand, words failing him.

"So what?"

" _You_ ," John said, wishing he could open his natural shields and let Sherlock into his mind so he could _see_ , so he would understand. "Everything about you is what you are. I've never met anyone even remotely like you-"

"You've met plenty of people like me," Sherlock interrupted, confused. "I'm Psy, John. It's hardly unique."

"No no no, you aren't like any other Psy I've met, either. Changelings have a natural mistrust and dislike of Psy. Most of your kind stink of cold steel and we would no more want anything to do with you than we would want a rotting corpse in our lair. But here you are, Silent but constantly, actively, breaking the Protocol, refusing to live by any of your society's rules unless you like them. You're the first person to ever intrigue both parts of my nature, Sherlock. And with this experiment, it's getting increasingly difficult for me to remember where the lines are between us." He took a deep breath and ploughed on. "If it was up to me, I would erase them all."

Sherlock stared at him, wide-eyed.

John sighed and turned away to pace, needing some form of outlet for his agitation. "I'm sorry but there you have it. Don't ask me where that came from just now because I have no idea."

They looked at one another from across the room and Sherlock gave a half-smile. It looked sincere and that was enough to make John want to leap across the room and repeat his entire loss of control all over again. Psy did not smile.

"John ..."

"I know it's impossible," he interrupted. "Everyone keeps telling me about these Psy-changeling mating bonds over in America like they're trying to make a point, but we're not like these people. I don't have one of the strongest packs in the world at my back and you are the brother of a Councillor. We can't leave our home to go into hiding and I know neither of us would want to. We can't do anything but stay precisely where we are, as we are."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "I notice you did not mention the possibility of me not being interested."

John snorted. "Please. I can smell your 'lack of interest' from all the way over here and it's not helping at all."

"It isn't?"

"Not if you want me to stay over here, where I can't throw all my nice little resolutions out the window and drag you up to my bed and not let you go for days."

Sherlock swallowed. "You ... want to do that ... with me?"

The question was terribly hesitant. Clearly such an option had never occurred to him, despite their experiment and all the touches and other people's comments about Psy and changelings.

To see Sherlock, of all people, seem so vulnerable was like a stab to John's heart.

"Yes of course," he said. "I have a hard time believing that not everyone does, in fact."

Sherlock shook his head. "No one ever wants me," he said calmly. "Psy do not operate based on baser instincts. Until you walked into my life, there was no one who would have ever even considered anything but cool indifference."

"Well, you do frequently point out you are surrounded by idiots," John told him. "I suppose there's your final proof."

But Sherlock clearly was not yet done digesting this new information. "And you just ... say it. Out loud. Like that."

"I'm a cat," John reminded him patiently. "If we see something we like, we pursue it until it's ours."

"Could you ... say it again?"

John smiled and took a step closer so he could look into Sherlock's eyes as he spoke. "I want you. All of you, all the time."

He just barely managed to stop himself from saying 'forever'. There was such a thing as too much and while he couldn't imagine living without Sherlock, he also couldn't ignore the fact that this, whatever it was, did not feel at all like the way other changelings described the mating dance. He would not promise or even suggest the possibility of something that might not actually exist.

Sherlock stared back at him, too overwhelmed by these simple words to pay attention to the things John had left unsaid.

John licked his lips, uncertain how to go from here. He was aware that his desire was too much. It didn't fit the neat parameters of friendship and certainly wasn't something that should ever be applied to a Psy. Particularly if the Psy in question was not only determined to use touch as a way to strengthen his Silence rather than breaking it, but also when that Psy happened to be the brother of one of the powerful members of the Psy Council. There were only so many risks worth taking and this one was too big to not consider it carefully.

"What do you think about that?" he finally asked. He wasn't stupid enough to ask how Sherlock _felt_ about it. Even if he admitted to feeling anything at all, he would have a hard time being able to describe what it was.

John knew Psy weren't actually incapable of feeling; they simply had every emotion and expression thereof so forcefully repressed from the beginning of their childhood that they did not know the first thing about emotions and how to classify them.

Sherlock frowned, thinking about his question. "I ... am not sure. The possibility of this happening had never occurred to me. I ... am flattered?"

John grinned. "Flattered is good. You should be. You're very desirable. Anyway, these are the facts. I know you Psy like facts, so here are some for you: I want you, in whatever capacity you will have me. I will push and pull and invade your space and generally be an outrageous changeling male intent on seducing you. If you say 'No', I will respect that and leave you be. But you better be damn sure you're denying us both for the right reasons. And I don't need a reply now. Take your time, but don't expect me to pretend I never said anything."

His Psy nodded. "Noted. I will take your words into consideration."

Unable to stop himself, John stepped forward and raised his hand to let it trail down Sherlock's face from his left temple across the arch of his cheekbone towards that full mouth, allowing his fingertips to linger ever so slightly on his lips before dropping away. "Good. I'll give you more things to consider in time."

*****

The dissonance was his constant companion now.

No matter what Sherlock did or where he went in his head, the pain responses followed. The conditioning Tk-Psy underwent was cruel, 'barbaric' as the other races would describe it, but Sherlock knew what damage a strong Psy could do without the conditioning in place. A hundred years ago, when the Silence Protocol had been implemented for the first time, it had been out of a desperate attempt to save them all.

The psychic strain of being constantly connected to others, to feel not only your own emotions but theirs as well when they got too strong, had turned too many of his kind volatile and violent, had left them with no ability to control their considerable psychic talents. Too many of them had turned into bloodthirsty killers, lost in a mad killing frenzy in an attempt to silence the noise in their heads. Back then, the Net that provided the biofeedback they needed to survive had also driven them to madness.

Silence had saved the Psy. He knew the other races could not understand this, but in the end, the adult Psy of their generation, the ones not yet mad but still feeling, had looked at their children and chosen to teach them not to feel rather than to watch them succumb to insanity and violence.

These days, the Psy felt nothing. No joy, no love, no lust, no happiness. But they also no longer felt anger, and, most importantly, they no longer felt the dangerous rage that had drawn so many of them into the abyss.

Sherlock knew that Tk-Psy like him had always been particularly vulnerable to the madness. Even now there were children of the Tk designation out there, not yet fully conditioned to be Silent, who accidentally killed their classmates or even their own parents in a flare of temper, a fit of rage there and gone again that would be harmless in a changeling or human but could be devastating for a Psy.

He had been lucky - his mother was a strong Tk herself and had managed to contain his involuntary outbursts before anyone could have gotten hurt. She had started teaching him self-control before she had begun teaching him how to speak. Intellectually, he knew she had done it out of sheer self-preservation, to protect both herself and her genetic heritage (himself and Mycroft) from his ability, but Sherlock remembered thinking when he had been very young and not yet fully conditioned that perhaps she might have done it because she did not want her child to carry the guilt of being a killer.

Either way, here he was, conditioned to be Silent at the cost of every emotion. Every child learned that touching a hot stove resulted in pain. Psy children learned that the same thing was true for expressing or even feeling sentiment. They got to live a full life, safe from the madness that had haunted their ancestors, and the price for that was everything that made life worth living.

Another spike of pain jagged through his brain at the thought. He disregarded it with a blink. The trouble with teaching him not to feel was that they had accidentally also taught him to disregard pain.

It was a useful thing, that pain. It warned him that to continue on his path would lead to more pain, a loss of control over his telekinesis and, depending on the scope of his loss of control and his location at the time, the death of everyone in his vicinity.

And yet John wanted him.

That was perhaps the most dangerous part in all of this.

The one man who had become integral to Sherlock's life, who had reminded him of what it was like to feel, who tempted him to break Silence and never look back, was also the very reason he could never seriously breach the Protocol. To do so would all but ensure John's death. It was not a price Sherlock was willing to pay. What use were feelings when the only person he would ever consider directing them at was gone?

He shuddered, Molly's words still echoing in his mind. _'Are you worried John will find a mate and lose them?'_

He wasn't. He was worried that John would find a mate and _Sherlock_ would lose him. The idea was enough to give even a Psy nightmares, but it was nothing compared to the idea of John dying.

The dissonance was like an electric shock running down his spine and he clenched his teeth against the pain. It paled compared to the agony of what losing John would do to him and the thought send another shock along his spinal cord, reinforcing the message that this train of thought was dangerous.

He could not, would not, risk it. For himself, he would have suffered the pain, would have shrugged it off like it was nothing. But he knew that even if by some miracle he managed not to kill John or anyone else, there were others out there who would see his breach of Silence as a weakness to be exploited. And they would have no scruples in removing the changeling responsible for Sherlock's unacceptable behaviour.

But John's words were still at the front of his mind, an admission of sentiment Sherlock had no defence against.

What was there for him to do about this? What could he possibly do or say? His own experiment had brought this on, his need to understand touch having backfired spectacularly. He had never meant for this to happen.

His logical Psy mind knew there was only one answer - to withdraw, to repair the cracks in his conditioning, to shun all sentiment. To stay away from John.

And the way he shied away from the idea was just another reason why it was the only correct option.

He could still feel John's warm hands on his skin, his breath on his throat, the broad swipe of his tongue along his neck. How could he possibly give that up? How could he, when it would hurt John in the process?

Sherlock stared out the window onto the dark street, unblinking and unseeing, and wondered if there was any option that wouldn't destroy them both. If there was, he couldn't see it.


	10. Chapter 9

It happened four days later, when they were standing at an entirely unrelated crime scene that Sherlock had just declared to be no more than a six. He was already halfway through deducing the killer when someone interrupted him.

"Why do you even bother? If it's ever so boring, why do you show up here at all? Or is it just that you get off on seeing dead bodies? All you Psy would just love to watch everyone else drop dead, isn't that right?"

A dozen astonished gazes turned towards Anderson, who stood a couple of feet away with his arms crossed, a sneer on his face. "If you ask me, we should just get rid of all of you, spare ourselves a lot of trouble. No one needs a Psy anyw-"

John lunged for him.

One moment, Anderson was standing there and the next John had him backed against a wall four feet away, a hand around his throat and a truly terrifying snarl ripping from his mouth.

Every human and changeling in the vicinity jumped back. Most of the changelings ducked as if trying to avert a blow.

And John stood, with glowing yellow eyes and teeth that were just a little too long and sharp for a human and snarled right in Anderson's face.

Then, as abruptly as he had moved, he let go and stepped back. His eyes shifted back to their usual blue, his canines, barely elongated at all, retracted, and suddenly he looked as harmless as he always had done.

"The next time you talk about a Psy genocide in general and about Sherlock in particular in my presence," he said softly, "you will regret it."

He turned and walked back to Sherlock's side as if nothing at all had happened and Sherlock watched, wide-eyed, as not a single one of the officers present challenged him for what could be described as borderline physical assault.

He could still feel John's snarl vibrating in his bones, a deep, thrilling sort of terror that had made every hair on his neck stand to attention as instincts hard-wired into his genes all jangled awake to raise the alarm.

It had been, Sherlock felt, a rather important reminder that John, though he looked like he couldn't harm a fly, was the most dangerous man in the general vicinity. And he had chosen to use that to protect him.

Sherlock identified a thrill of warmth that he suspected wasn't quite in keeping with the terror he was supposed to feel.

*****

The day they chose to attempt a hug, John locked both doors to the flat and closed all the curtains to be absolutely certain that no one would be able to see them.

Meanwhile, Sherlock sat cross-legged on the floor, his eyes open but unfocused as he added yet another layer of shields to his mind. Every now and then, John could see his eyes flare. By now, he knew it meant the Psy was using a large amount of power.

Once he was done securing their flat, he sat back and waited for Sherlock to emerge from his mind so they could continue. Or get started, depending on how you looked at it.

"I'm ready," Sherlock said about half an hour later, blinking rapidly as he emerged from the depths of his mind. "If anyone manages to break through my shields now, I'll die of a stroke before they can find out anything."

"That ... does not reassure me at all," John sighed. "But I suppose we don't really have a better option, do we?"

"None that doesn't carry the risk of exposure," Sherlock told him. "And you know I cannot risk that."

John thought of a Psy Sherlock had pointed out to him on the street two days earlier, one who had been rehabilitated for daring to laugh. It was the closest he had ever seen to what post-apocalyptic novels described as zombies. He shuddered at the memory.

"If they tried to do that to you, I would kill every one of them."

Sherlock tilted his head, clearly doubtful. "You don't even shift."

"That's true," John conceded, licking his lips. "I would in that case."

He hesitated for a moment before continuing. "The whole reason I don't shift is because of my PTSD. The last time I shifted, my pack was dying all around me. We were horrifically outnumbered and I ... went a little crazy. I don't know what happened but when I became aware of what was happening around me again, it was in a field of dead bodies. I don't know what will happen if I shift again but I cannot risk finding out. So if I wanted to kill a whole bunch of people, shifting would be the first thing I'd try."

Sherlock stared at him and gave a rapid double-blink as he absorbed this new information. Then he shook his head. "All I am taking away from this is that you are willing to and capable of killing in order to protect others. Hardly something to be ashamed of."

John shook his head. "That is not an excuse."

"You were in a war zone, John. I believe war zones are places where a high body count is expected. I am certain when they sent you there they took your changeling nature into account. And you still haven't told me what it is."

John snorted. "Nice try. If you can't deduce it, I'm not telling you. And I should not have lost control like that."

He shook his head. "And anyway, it's beside the point now. Do you want to continue your experiment or not?"

"Yes of course." Sherlock rose from the floor and stood up straight. "Where do you want me?"

_'In my bed, but I'll take what I can get,'_ John thought and only just managed to say "Just there is fine."

He stepped closer until they were as close as they could possibly get without touching. He had to tilt his head back to look Sherlock in the face. "Are you sure about this?"

"Yes, John. We've been over this. No one can see, my shields are secure, I am used to you touching me by now. What do you want to wait for?"

John rolled his eyes. "Fine. Remember to reciprocate."

"I have seen people hug before, John. You and Mrs Hudson do it all the time."

He had a point there, so John decided not to waste any more time. He was itching to reach out, had been desperate to wrap Sherlock up in his arms for months now. The very thought of holding him close and breathing in his scent and maybe licking along his neck again just to see if he could ...

John stopped his train of thought right there and hugged Sherlock.

There was a surprised inhale and a shaky gasp, warm breath rushing along the sensitive skin of John's neck, and then Sherlock's arms slowly crept around him until his hands came to rest on John's lower back and between his shoulder blades, mirroring the position of his own hands on Sherlock's body.

His entire being was alert and utterly relaxed at the same time and he turned his head a little, pleased to find that his nose did in fact end up right next to Sherlock's suprasternal notch.

Sherlock was surprisingly warm, though he could not hope to match John's natural body temperature that humans would have classified as a mild fever. He hummed as Sherlock pressed closer, his arms tightening around John's body. The Psy swayed a little where he stood, which may have been a contributing factor. John tightened his own grip in response.

"Good?"

"Yessss," Sherlock said and it was half hiss, half sigh.

He lowered his head a little, accidentally or purposefully rubbing his temple along the side of John's head. His cat interpreted the gesture as a caress and John found himself making a low rumbling noise in his chest, so deep it could have been mistaken for a growl.

It was hard to believe that he was really holding Sherlock Holmes in his arms, a Psy, on his express wish for John to do so. If anyone had told him a year ago that he would end up hugging a Psy, he would have laughed in their face and now here he was, doing just that and enjoying it immensely.

Something wet and warm dripped onto his shoulder and for a moment he thought Sherlock was crying - nothing seemed impossible just now.

Then the scent hit him and he jerked. "Sherlock, you're bleeding."

"'m fine," Sherlock muttered. "It's just a nose bleed. Don't let go."

John sighed but didn't really want to let go anyway, so he held on, rubbing his hand up and down Sherlock's back. "How are you feeling?"

There was a pause as Sherlock thought about it. "Safe. Warm. ... Cared for."

Warmth swelled in John's chest at these words and he realised with terrified wonder that this feeling no longer fit the category of 'caring' or 'friendship' or even 'desire' that he had shoved it into. He had no idea what to do with that realisation.

Swallowing tightly, he tried for a smile, knowing that Sherlock couldn't see it in this position. "That's good. I do care for you. And I will always keep you safe."

"I believe you," Sherlock said, voice oddly thick. John wondered if it was due to the nose bleed.

Another hot drop landed on his skin just beside the collar of his t-shirt. The tang of copper was agitating his cat, triggering memories of the war and far too much blood in the sand.

"Sherlock, that's enough. You need a tissue."

He tried to step back but Sherlock wouldn't budge.

"Sherlock."

"No." The word was half slurred. "I want to keep this. I've never felt ... anything like this. Please."

John's chest ached at that but he knew he had to stand firm. "We can do it again later, if you like."

Sherlock didn't respond, simply slumping against John.

"Sherlock?"

No response.

Something cold fizzled down John's spine. "Sherlock!"

He eased back and only just managed to catch Sherlock before he fell. His eyes were shut and blood trickled from both nostrils.

"Shit."

*****

Sherlock came to some undetermined time later. There was something soft underneath him and he seemed to be covered by a blanket.

He felt warm and safe and had a splitting headache.

"Oh good, you're awake."

He opened his eyes and blinked until the blurry something above him swam into focus - it was John's face. Sherlock's brain took a moment to draw the correct card from his memory, then identified the expression on John's face as concern.

It wasn't hard to draw the most likely conclusion.

"I passed out."

"And scared the crap out of me," John confirmed. "I thought you were having a brain haemorrhage."

Sherlock shook his head. "That would have required much more input. My shields tried to protect me from the dissonance, I believe. All I need is sufficient time to recover and I shall be fine."

"Damn right you're going to rest," John told him. "I'm only letting you up from this sofa to get you into your bed and I won't hear any arguments about it either."

"If you say so."

"I do."

They eyed one another for a moment, each too stubborn to look away first. Eventually, Sherlock gave up - there was no way to out-stare a cat unless you wanted permanent eye-damage.

"How long was I out?"

"About an hour," John said tightly. "I wanted to call an ambulance, have your brain scanned, but I didn't know how to explain what happened to you."

Sherlock snorted. "If the Council had found out, you wouldn't have had to worry about  _possible_ brain damage any longer. Perhaps they would have decided you attacked me, tried to overwhelm me with touch on purpose. That would get you killed and me reconditioned. Better than rehabilitation, all things considered, though of course my reaction to your demise would land me in rehabilitation either way."

"That ... is not helpful," John growled, reaching out as if to pull Sherlock up, then changed his mind. "Can you sit?"

Sherlock could and did, swinging his legs off the sofa and sitting up carefully. The headache was really quite unpleasant.

John hovered by his side, ready to assist him at any moment, but didn't try to touch him again. Considering the way his brain felt, Sherlock thought that was a rather prudent decision.

He managed to get on his feet and stood still for a bit, letting his body adjust. The dissonance was at its lowest level, easily disregarded. He didn't expect it to stop any time soon. So long as John was either here with him or on his mind, Sherlock knew the pain response would not stop. There was nothing he could do about that.

Ignoring the dissonance for now, he walked down the hall and to his bedroom, John close at his heels. He didn't necessarily need rest but some time to focus on his shields and the cracks in his conditioning was clearly required.

"Will you be all right on your own?" John asked him as he stretched out on his bed.

Sherlock did a quick visual check of his flatmate - tense, hovering, clearly unwilling to leave him alone. Conclusion: anxious. Concerned for his well-being? Quite possibly.

"I will be fine," he said. "Leave me alone so I can work on my shields without getting distracted. There's nothing to worry about."

For now. If the dissonance continued at this rate, it would eventually cause permanent brain damage. He saw no reason to tell John that, however. He did not intend to let it get that far out of hand. There had to be other options available. He just needed to find them.

John did as he had asked but left the door to his room open, a visual reminder that he was there if Sherlock needed him.

He closed his eyes and dove into his mind, finding the cracks in his conditioning and fixing them as best he could. With every tear he repaired, the dissonance faded a little. He kept going until it was gone, then re-examined his psychic shields protecting him from others in the Net. They were all unblemished. To everyone else on the Net, his mind shone with the icy sheen of perfect Silence - just as it should.

Venturing past his shields and stepping into the PsyNet proper, he took a moment to look around at the billions of stars, each representing a Psy's mind in the darkness of the Net. Some shone so bright they were almost blinding, marking the Cardinals. It took him no time at all to find his brother and he sent a psychic knock his way, a request to talk.

A moment later, Mycroft answered the psychic call.

"Sherlock. This is unexpected."

"Is it?"

"You do not usually contact me voluntarily," Mycroft pointed out. "What do you need?"

"Information," Sherlock told him. "There is a killer on the loose, in case you hadn't noticed. He uses psychic blasts to kill changelings."

Mycroft's mind, icy even by Psy standards, flared for a second - the only hint that he had heard the implication and did not like it at all. "I see. What information do you require?"

"I got access to the list of strong telepaths but I am not convinced it is complete. You and I know there are those among us who move through the Net unnoticed. I need to know who I'm missing."

"Did you inform DI Lestrade of the fact that even a Psy of medium telepathic strength could kill a changeling with a well-aimed psychic blast?"

"I saw no reason to divulge that information," Sherlock replied calmly. "The changelings trust us little enough already. Either way, it is of no matter in this case. The murders were too sophisticated, the targets too specific and difficult to reach, for anyone below Grade 8 to have been responsible." He paused. "Unless of course the Council sanctioned these hits?"

Mycroft's reply was cool indifference, as always. "I have no knowledge of Council-sanctioned hits carried out on random changelings. Give me a moment, I will download the file on the victims."

Of course there was information about the murders on the Net - the Psy who had witnessed the attack in the park would have uploaded it almost instantly, and they were hardly the only ones who would have information available to them in some way. He waited while his brother accessed the data and downloaded it into his mind.

"It appears one of the victims was a juvenile," Mycroft observed. "There is nothing of interest about him to be found. I see no reason why we would have had him eliminated."

On the physical pane, Sherlock nodded to himself. He had assumed as much. "I had to be sure. If my theory is correct, there is an unsanctioned killer out there, a truly psychopathic Psy who has somehow evaded all the fail-saves the Council has put in place to detect flawed individuals like them. They will not stop killing unless someone makes them stop. If I cannot find that person in the list, he or she must have been intentionally removed or kept off it. You and I know there is a very limited number of reasons for such an action."

There was a short pause as Mycroft considered his words.

"Very well," he finally said. "I will contact certain people and make enquiries. We cannot allow a serial killer to walk free. It would disprove everything we have made the world believe about the Silence Protocol. As far as the general population is concerned, the Psy have stopped their descend into madness."

Sherlock snorted. "We both know better, brother mine, and I am certain that at least some of the changelings do not believe our claims."

"Speaking of," Mycroft said, smoothly changing the topic, "how is your living arrangement proceeding? I heard there have been ... incidents."

He left the word hanging, waiting for Sherlock to fill in the blank and admit to things Mycroft could have no knowledge of.

"None that I am aware of," he lied smoothly. "I have explained to John what it means to be Silent. He is a useful source of information and occasionally his comments on our cases trigger new thought processes in my mind that lead to a viable conclusion. He is also a very useful liaison with the Yard. The changelings there have grown less suspicious of me, considering our living arrangements a sort of alliance. They trust a fellow predator's judgement. It makes working with them less difficult, allowing me to focus on the cases without having to expect an attack at any moment." He decided to play his trump card. "Knowing I work with a changeling is good for business - the number of changeling clients that have hired me has increased significantly since John moved into the flat."

"I see," Mycroft said. It was quite possible that he saw much more than Sherlock wanted him to. "I shall leave you to handle the situation as you see fit. In the meantime, I will make the necessary enquiries and find out what I can. Do try and keep your shields intact, Sherlock. If you break Silence now, there is nothing I can do to help you. In time, a new avenue of possibilities may open up for us."

It was as good as a shouted accusation and Sherlock knew there was only one possible response. "I have no intention of breaking Silence, Mycroft. It is a preposterous idea. Sentiment is a dangerous disadvantage and a distraction I could not possibly have any use for in my work."

"As you say."

Mycroft ended the conversation without a goodbye. Sherlock hadn't expected one.

He did another sweep of his shields, this time from further outside, to be absolutely sure they were secure, then returned into their safety and added another layer. Part of him wondered if he was becoming paranoid but it could hardly be called paranoia when he knew for a fact that someone would be out to get him if they realised how fragile his Silence had become.

After their conversation just now, he was reasonably certain that Mycroft knew or at least suspected. Under other circumstances, this would be enough to make him very nervous indeed, but if Mycroft intended to do something about it, he would be doing it already rather than telling Sherlock to be patient and wait. In fact, it almost sounded as if his brother had been quietly preparing for a day when this might happen. Clearly he had not expected it so soon, though.

Sherlock wondered what precisely Mycroft was cooking up that could possibly provide a solution for his not insignificant problem. There were too many variables to consider and while Mycroft wielded impressive power thanks to his position in the Council, he alone would not be enough to protect Sherlock from rehabilitation if the other Councillors grew suspicious. It was a good thing none of them had any reason to focus on London, not when they were dealing with defections of Cardinals in an area where two large and powerful changeling packs continued to gain influence.

Sooner or later, this entire house of cards would come crashing down. He could only hope that he and John might come out of it alive and with their minds intact.

*****

John was pacing the sitting room when Sherlock finally emerged from his bedroom. He instantly turned towards him, doing a quick visual scan.

"Are you all right? How is your head?"

"Better," Sherlock replied. "I fixed my shields and added some more layers. The dissonance has stopped for now."

"But it will start again, won't it?" John asked grimly.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. There is nothing that can be done about it. I cannot disable the dissonance triggers without risking my Tk slipping the leash if I lose control."

John frowned. "I don't get why that is such a big deal. What's the worst that could happen?"

Clearly it was the wrong question to ask. Sherlock didn't move, didn't blink, didn't do anything, but suddenly every single item in their sitting room, including the furniture, was floating at least ten centimetres off the ground.

John looked around in astonishment. "Okay, that's impressive, but how-"

"This," Sherlock said calmly, "takes me about as much focus and energy as it takes you to breathe. I could let all our furniture float like this all day and hardly notice the strain. You think my telekinesis means I can make things fly. The Yarders think the worst I can do is drag a fleeing criminal back towards me if there is no other option to catch them."

He shook his head with a snort as all the furniture returned to its place. "The truth is, I could throw you out of this window with less than a thought and make you smash into the building opposite hard enough to break every bone in your body. I could make this house fall apart around us. I could derail the tube trains running through this city - several of them simultaneously, actually. I could do untold damages entirely by accident if I lost control over my ability for even a second. What's a little pain and a nosebleed compared to that?"

John stared at him in wide-eyed horror. What was he supposed to say to that? Clearly there was only one logical response.

"But you would never do any of that," he pointed out. "You may act like you don't care, you may lie to my face and everyone else's and pretend Silence is everything you are, but it's not the truth. You know better and so do I. You would never turn into an unfeeling killing machine, Sherlock, no matter what other people claim. There is no way you would ever cause innocents harm."

Sherlock shook his head. "You don't understand. It's not a question of intention. If my ability slips its leash, if I lose control, it will lash out in any direction without me being able to steer it. I could do all of this entirely by accident, even against my express will. I am so much more dangerous than you have ever thought, John. Which is why I can never let go of Silence. It is all that keeps this city safe from me."

It was John's turn to shake his head, more in denial than in disbelief. "No."

"Yes." Sherlock's voice brooked no argument.

"Then why even experiment in the first place?" John demanded. "Why attempt to get used to touch, to sentiment, when you always knew it could never truly work?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Scientific enquiry. I merely wished to know how much I could take before the dissonance became too strong. I must thank you for your cooperation - it has been very educational indeed. It also helped me build up a resistance. Should anyone try to best me by touching me now, they will not succeed."

John shook his head again. "No. No, I don't believe you. I saw the look on your face every time we touched. I smelled what that did to you. What _I_ did to you. You may be able to lie to the rest of the world, but I won't let you get away with lying to me. Not about this."

"Any body will respond appropriately if stimulated correctly," Sherlock said coolly. "I'm surprised you think I could not fake the rest of my reaction accordingly."

"Fake it?" John repeated. "I think you've forgotten who you're talking to."

He knew Sherlock was expecting him to back off, to step back. A couple of weeks ago, John would have.

But now he knew Sherlock so much better. His scent, already familiar from months of living together, seemed permanently etched into his brain. His habits were as well known to him as any of John's old packmates had been. And people considered him a fearsome predator without reason. He was not one to walk away from a challenge.

"I know you," he said now, prowling closer. His cat was close to the surface and he watched Sherlock's eyes widen slightly - no doubt he had seen John's own eyes change. "I know who you are and how you act. I know when you're shamming. And you can tell me all you like that you were acting, but you are Psy. You don't know enough about sentiment to fake it in any way that would convince me. And no matter what you do, even you can't control your own scent. So your mouth may be saying one thing, but your body is telling a whole other story."

If Sherlock was uncomfortable by John prowling towards him like the predator he was, he tried not to show it, sniffing dismissively instead. "So?"

"So I know you're clinging to your Silence with both hands," John murmured, so close now he could see the tiny hairs on Sherlock's skin stand to attention. He leaned forward until his nose was only inches away from Sherlock's neck. "I know you're clinging to it, desperately, because if you didn't, you'd break it and you are terrified of what might happen when you do. You are so afraid of it, it makes me want to find your Psy Council and tear them all to pieces for what they have done to you and every other member of your species. And you know what else?"

Sherlock breathed in and out, a little shakily. "What?"

John smiled and allowed a low growl to roll with his voice. "The very fact that you have to struggle to hold on to your Silence, that it is a chore, that your entire being is fighting against it and chafing at these chains they put you in, makes me think there is still hope for you. All of you."

He straightened and took two large steps back, privately satisfied to see Sherlock sway forward. "But I'll respect your wish for distance. All you had to do was ask."

Sherlock blinked.

John smiled. "I'm a changeling. We're bad with boundaries, always sticking our noses in our packmates' business, but we respect skin privileges. If you don't want me touching you again-" and just saying these words hurt - "then all you had to do was say so."

He gave Sherlock another reassuring smile, turned on his heel and retreated to his room.

 


	11. Chapter 10

The following day was an exercise in self-restraint.

John's cat, bewildered by the sudden turn of events and craving the skin contact with the Psy he had gotten used to, was harder to contain than usually. But John held on to his restraint. His animalistic side might want to return to last night in the living room, bury his nose in Sherlock's clavicle and lick a long stripe up his neck, but his human side knew that such an action would not be welcomed.

_'Patience,'_ he thought, and reached out to his friends in the local packs. Psy may be mentally connected and able to hold conversations over vast distances, spreading information at speeds that easily matched the Internet the rest of the world relied on, but changeling packs had their own ways of communication. And they gossiped like nobody's business.

So John, secure in the knowledge that Sherlock had gone to St Bart's, got comfortable on the sofa and made some phone calls. With a flatmate who was Psy, it was easy to steer the conversation where he wanted it to go and the resulting information was interesting indeed.

The Psy, his various friends agreed, were starting to question the Silence protocol. Kaleb Krychek, a Cardinal of near unlimited power and member of the Psy Council no less, had found a mate in a Psy woman. The alphas of the DarkRiver leopards in Francisco and the SnowDancer wolves in the Sierra Nevada had both mated with powerful Psy women who had dropped out of the PsyNet years ago and didn't seem to suffer any ill effects.

As the usual 'side effect' of dropping out of the PsyNet apparently was to either die in agony or go permanently insane from the pain, going by what Sherlock and the grapevine had said, this was seen as strong evidence that they had found a way to subvert the need for the biofeedback the Net provided them with.

On top of that, several other Psy had also given up Silence. One of them was now with a human man.

"If she doesn't have a changeling pack to protect her, what's stopping the Council from having her rehabilitated?" John asked, surprised.

"She's an anchor," Haley, one of his packmates and provider of that particular titbit of information, replied.

"A what now?"

He could almost hear her shrug through the comm. "An anchor. They're sort of a physical fixed point for the PsyNet, or whatever. Can't take her out without destabilising the Net and endangering millions of Psy in her area. So they're letting her be. You know, for The Greater Good." He could definitely hear the capital letters.

John nodded. "I see," he said, though it all sounded rather crazy. "So what everyone is saying is that Silence is over?"

"Not yet," she said. "The Council is clinging to power. I don't know what's going on exactly and of course no Psy would ever tell us. If they're still in the Net, they're not close enough to any changelings to keep us informed, and if they're out of the Net, they won't be getting any more intel than we do."

That made sense. John sighed. "Figures. Ah well, thanks for letting me know, Haley."

"Hmm, my pleasure. We should meet up some day soon." Her voice was an open invitation.

John chuckled. "Sorry, I think my womanising days are over."

"Are you ready to settle down?" she asked, sounding caught between disbelief and outright amusement. "Don't tell me our lone ranger John has finally found a mate."

"I haven't," he sighed. "But I'm just ... not really looking for anyone, I guess?"

What he didn't say, what he hardly dared to think, was that he would be happy to spend the rest of his life here, in 221b, running after his mad Psy flatmate and be content, mate or no. He also didn't say that he strongly suspected the "no" option had already become impossible.

"Your parents will have a fit when they hear," Haley said.

John groaned. "Oh god, please don't tell them. How are they, anyway?"

"You know, getting on. Your mother complains she never gets to see you and your father says he doesn't want to see you unless you come back for good, preferably with a mate and cub in tow."

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen," John snorted. "How's Harry doing? Are they leaving her alone?"

"They're behaving with basic civility. I swear, John, your parents are the only people left on the planet who would throw a fit over their daughter being mated to another woman."

"Mum just wants the grandchildren," he said, rolling his eyes. "Her life's ambition has always been to become a grandmother. Having children of her own was just a pesky stepping stone she had to use to cross that river. She would have skipped it if she could have."

"I'm sorry," Haley said softly. "But I want you to know you're always welcome when you want to come home." Her tone became teasing. "You can bring your Psy flatmate. That would give them something to get their tails in a twist."

John laughed, even as his heart sank. After their conversation last night, something as simple as introducing Sherlock to his family seemed impossible to imagine.

He ended the call soon afterwards and stretched indulgently before staring up at the ceiling with a sigh. What to do with the information he had gotten? Clearly Psy were capable of emotion just like everybody else. Equally clearly, most of them either didn't want to be or were absolutely terrified of it. He, too, would be terrified if someone was threatening him with what the Psy called 'rehabilitation' and what John considered an act of violence.

So, what to do about his own Psy, then?

Sherlock had every reason in the world not to want to break his Silence, but John wasn't an idiot. No matter how many reasons Sherlock had, he had already broken the Protocol years ago, if he had ever been truly Silent at all. He had crafted a perfect facade, had kept himself emotionally remote and removed in a way that had even fooled the Fox changelings he worked with at the Yard. But he had also tricked his Psy teachers into letting him play the violin when he was still a child and had then convinced them to let him keep doing it.

In a house containing John and an affectionate, non-dominant deer changeling, Sherlock had chosen John for his little experiment in touch. Mrs Hudson, John knew, would have given Sherlock all the hugs he could possibly ask for. But he hadn't. He had asked John.

John couldn't help but wonder if that was because touch meant more when it came from him.

*****

Sherlock had left the house in the early morning and hidden himself away in the laboratory of St Bart's hospital. He had commandeered the victims' full brains and was carefully inspecting them for damage, trying to figure out how extensive it was and how much power it would have taken.

Just a year or two ago, he would have considered getting a live pig and blasting it with telepathy to see how much energy it took to kill it, but somehow he found himself balking at the thought. He tried to reason that animals not of the changeling variety didn't have the same level of mental shielding as changelings did, which would nullify the whole experiment, but deep down he knew it was merely an excuse. A good, solid excuse, yes. But an excuse nonetheless.

And all the while, his thoughts strayed back to John and their confrontation last night.

Mycroft's warning had been clear - he had to hold on to his Silence (or the facade of it), had to stick it out for however long it took. Playing this dangerous touch game with John at the same time was too dangerous for the both of them. But he could hardly tell John that. He couldn't risk the news spreading that Silence might fall in the near future - not when he didn't have any real confirmation, not without solid evidence. Defectors were rare, or so the Council wanted them to think, but they happened and weren't any real indicator of Psy society as a whole.

Something was brewing in the Net, that much was undeniable. There had been an unprecedented number of upsets in recent years. But change took time and, if he continued on his current path, time was not something he would have.

So, stopping this charade of an experiment with John was in their best interest. John would understand, even if Sherlock never explained it. He wasn't stupid. Predatory changelings, Sherlock knew, were very good at strategic thinking. They had to be if they wished to keep themselves and their packs alive. John would know Sherlock had valid reasons and he would accept them.

_'All you had to do was ask,'_ John had said. It hadn't even occurred to Sherlock. Psy didn't ask for things. Asking implied being too weak or not influential or cunning enough to get what you wanted handed to you on a silver platter. Asking implied wanting something, which was a weakness that could be exploited in all manners of ways. He kept forgetting that changelings didn't see it like that unless they were dealing with a rival or enemy.

Sherlock was reasonably certain that John did not consider him either.

_'We are bad with boundaries, always sticking our noses in our packmates' business,'_ he had said. Did that mean John considered him a packmate? Was such a thing even possible? 

He didn't know enough about changeling packs to even begin to theorise.

The door to the lab opened as Molly entered and Sherlock realised he had been staring sightlessly at the brain in front of him for several minutes, lost in thought.

"Are you finished with these?" Molly asked, nodding at the brains neatly lined up in front of him.

Sherlock nodded. There was nothing the damage could tell him that he didn't already know.

"Yes. Put them back where they belong."

"I wonder who did it," Molly murmured as she picked up the first of the trays. "But there is something I wanted to show you about the stomach contents. Care to accompany me? You can bring the other trays."

Sherlock felt his lips twitch - something else that hadn't happened before John's appearance in his life. Molly was clever, asking him to come along so she wouldn't have to make the trip several times.

He stood and followed her out the door, the trays with the victims' brains floating in his wake. Molly sent him an appreciative smile and then wiped every expression off her face when they heard steps approaching around the corner. Her smile was a reminder that Molly, too, was waiting. And that for some reason, she seemed to have decided that Sherlock was someone whom she could trust with that knowledge. Perhaps, he thought, she had looked at him and seen something everyone else missed. He wasn't concerned - if there was anyone who wouldn't out him for going against the Protocol, it was Molly.

"Just put them down over there," she said, indicating one of the tables in the morgue. "I will return them to their owners as soon as I've shown you what I found."

He lined the trays up neatly and followed her to another table and a smaller microscope she used during her autopsies.

"I almost missed it, it was so tiny," she told him. "Trace amounts of something in the stomach contents. Take a look."

Sherlock did. He frowned. "What is that?"

"It's some sort of chemical compound, or what's left of it. I only found it in the most recent victim's stomach, but I think that's because the others had already fully broken it down and absorbed all of it, so there was nothing left for me to find."

"Interesting," Sherlock murmured. "Can you replicate it?"

"I'll try," she promised. "We might be able to identify it and figure out if it has any bearing on the murders."

"But you think it does," Sherlock said. "You are convinced the others also imbibed this compound."

Molly nodded. "I can't find the evidence but I can sort of feel it when I focus. Like the smell of smoke long after the fire is out."

It was moments like this where Sherlock found himself wishing for Molly's ability. M-Psy were quite versatile, some of them capable of detecting heart conditions without the help of any technology, others capable of fixing tiny broken vessels in people's brains without invasive surgery. Others were simply good at determining what was wrong with a patient and left the actual treatment to others. And then there was Molly. There wasn't a single thing a human corpse could hide from Molly Hooper if she wanted to find it.

For someone solving violent crimes, what was Telekinesis compared to that?

Yet even as he thought it, Sherlock knew he would never change designations even if it was possible.

"How is John?"

"Hm?"

"John," Molly repeated. "I was enquiring about him. He's usually with you." She gave another shaky smile. "He never wrinkles his nose at me."

"It's because you don't stink of metal," Sherlock said absently, still examining the sample under the microscope. "He says the really cold Psy, the ones who are beyond hope of ever feeling anything, smell like cold metal. The changelings all hate it."

"He doesn't seem to hate you," Molly said, in what must be a new height of suicidal bravery.

Sherlock blinked. "It would appear so."

"So where is he?" He forgot sometimes how persistent Molly could be.

"At home, I would think. I left before he rose this morning."

"And he still hasn't shifted?"

He stilled. "Not that I am aware. Why are you asking?"

She glanced around to make sure no one else was there - silly, they would have heard the door - and lowered her voice. "I asked around in the healing community and I've been told if changelings don't shift for a long time, they might go insane or ... or lose the ability completely. He's ... he's not acting weirdly, is he?"

Sherlock thought of John prowling towards him, of his eyes turning yellow, the pupils slitted. He thought of John snarling at Anderson. He thought of John touching him, of John's hot breath in his ear and on his neck and of John breathing in deep, clearly taking in Sherlock's scent.

"No," he said. "No, he's not doing anything out of the ordinary. But I shall keep an eye on him." He paused and added. "I appreciate your warning."

She shrugged. "It was nothing. He seems ... you seem close. I wouldn't want anything to happen to him."

Sherlock made sure his expression and tone were absolutely neutral as he replied. "We have a mutually beneficial working and living arrangement."

Molly made a noise that was dangerously close to a snort but when she spoke, her tone was as neutral as his. "Then, for the sake of convenience, I hope it will continue for some time."

_'So do I,'_ Sherlock thought and felt the cold fist of fear clench tight in his chest.

*****

Sherlock was tense when he returned home from the lab. John watched him with narrow eyes, taking in the straight line of his spine, the precise steps, the angle of his head and the curve of his shoulders. Tense. He could almost feel Sherlock's muscles bunching from across the room.

"Bad results?" he asked.

"What?"

"You're coiled like a viper ready to strike," John said. "I assume your work in the lab didn't yield the results you wanted."

"Oh, no. No, it was fine," Sherlock replied. "Molly has discovered trace amounts of a chemical compound in the stomach of one of the victims. She is trying to analyse and replicate it so we can study it in more detail."

"That sounds good," John noted. "Doesn't explain why you are strung tighter than your violin."

Sherlock didn't reply. Well, if that was the way he wanted to play it ...

He prowled closer, coming to a stop well within Sherlock's personal space. He was careful not to touch, though. Sherlock had chosen to revoke all skin privileges last night. John hadn't bothered to tell him that the moment Sherlock reached for him, that choice was void and they'd be back to whatever level Sherlock's own touch dictated. John was a cat, after all, and cats didn't fight fair when they could be cunning.

"Are you going to stop talking to me now, too?" he murmured, leaning forward so his mouth was just a hair's breadth from touching the soft shell of Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock swallowed but otherwise remained unmoved. "Of course not. Your input is as valuable to me as ever."

John smirked and allowed it to show in his voice. "Is it? Well, I will be happy to provide my ... input ... whenever you want me to. Putting something in is a particular talent of mine."

It was immensely satisfying to see the hair on Sherlock's neck stand on end. John found that even his cat hardly minded not being allowed to touch - this game was fun in different ways.

"Is that the famous Three Continents Watson reputation you are referring to?" Sherlock asked. He was trying hard to sound unaffected but John could hear his voice waver ever so slightly and he didn't even need that - not when Sherlock's scent wrote its own story in the air.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" He smiled and took a large step backwards. "If you ever decide to stop denying yourself, perhaps you'll find out."

Sherlock turned around and open his mouth to reply but his datapad pinged with an incoming call and the moment was gone. When he answered the call, his voice was as smooth and cool as always. "Yes?"

Even from several paces away, John had no trouble hearing Lestrade's voice. "We've got another one. It's different this time. You better come."

 


	12. Chapter 11

The crime scene was awash in blue and white lights, throwing strange shadows onto the outer wall of St Paul's Cathedral.

Their victim lay on the walkway in the church yard, judging by the hive of activity there.

John followed Sherlock out of the cab, bracing himself for the sight of yet another dead body and hoping fervently that whoever it was, he didn't know them. He wasn't sure if he could keep doing this if his friends ended up dead.

Lestrade hurried towards them, looking harried, but stopped before they reached him. John had only seen the other man in his changeling form once but he still got the impression of bristling whiskers.

"It's different this time," the DI called to them, repeating his earlier words. "If he didn't look like the others did, we would have dismissed it entirely, but ..."

"Show me," Sherlock demanded, striding forward.

The other officers drew back a little as they approached and John thought he saw less of the animosity they usually threw in Sherlock's direction. Were they reaching the ends of their ropes as well?

And then they stood over the body and he knew.

"Oh."

The man had been of slim, medium built, with close-cropped blonde hair and pale skin that suggested not enough time spent outside. He wore a perfectly tailored suit and thin leather gloves.

John didn't really need those hints, not with the scent of cold steel in the air that even the blood couldn't hide completely. "He's Psy."

Sherlock crouched down next to the body. "It appears our killer isn't focused solely on changelings. I had wondered ... attacking a Psy in such a manner must be much simpler. Any other individual might have started with Psy or at least humans before trying to break a changeling's shields. Interesting."

"Not quite the word I would have used," John murmured. "But it is certainly weird. Any idea who he is?"

"Not yet. Give me a couple of seconds," Sherlock replied, his eyes going slightly out of focus as he accessed the PsyNet. If it weren't for his slow breathing and the steady beat of his heart, the complete stillness of his body would have been eerie in the extreme.

He blinked. "No information yet. I didn't want to upload his picture but there is no one considered missing yet. He was probably on his way home from work when he was attacked. I haven't seen his face before, so he is unlikely to be part of the more prominent members of Psy society."

"Is that important?" John asked, frowning.

Sherlock shrugged. "It may be. A high-profile murder could be seen as political and further destabilise the Net."

He paused, his eyes flaring slightly. John felt the hairs on his arms stand on end. "Who are you talking to?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock said quietly and then fell silent again, engrossed in a conversation that played out in his head while his brother was miles away.

After a moment, he shook his head and spoke again, the conversation apparently over. "He does not know our victim, either. That definitely rules out the Elite. We will have to discover his identity the old-fashioned way."

"So, nothing useful then," John murmured. "Any theories on why the killer went for a Psy this time?"

Sherlock shook his head. "There are too many possibilities. Perhaps it was an accident. Perhaps we are dealing with a copycat. It is too early to tell. I shall have to wait for Dr Hooper's autopsy report before I can come to any conclusions. However, I would appreciate your medical opinion in the meantime."

John nodded, put on a pair of disposable gloves, and went to work.

*****

While John examined the body, giving a running commentary of his findings, Lestrade returned from wherever he had slunk off to. Sherlock hadn't paid any attention to him, too focused on the obvious relief on John's face when he had seen the body. Even Sherlock could guess the reason behind that - clearly the changeling woman's death had shaken John badly.

Now, he turned his gaze away from John's capable hands to watch Lestrade approach. The DI had kept his distance from them since they had arrived at the crime scene. Sherlock wasn't sure what to make of it - the changelings were never wild to get near him but Lestrade had never let that faze him. But as he stepped closer, the neutral expression on his face changed into something that looked like surprise. His eyes widened, his mouth dropped open and his eyes flicked back and forth between Sherlock and John. Interesting.

"Anything the matter?" Sherlock asked.

"Mmh? Oh no, nothing, nothing," Lestrade said, not very convincingly. "Any insights, John?"

John didn't look up from the body. "Looks like he died just like the others. Fatal brain haemorrhage. Have Dr Hooper do the autopsy as quickly as possible. Sherlock mentioned she found something of interest that might only be present in the body for a limited time."

Lestrade took a deep breath. "Sounds good to me. You heard the expert, boys!" he shouted to some of the Constables, who hurried over immediately. "As soon as the evidence crew is ready, I want this body taken to the morgue, care of Dr Molly Hooper. Understood? Off you pop. John, can I have a word?"

John, rising from his crouched position, blinked. "Uh ... sure."

Sherlock watched as Lestrade pulled John away a bit. Like most changelings, he had trouble estimating how well Psy and humans could hear, which made getting out of earshot an interesting game of chance. In this case, he misjudged in Sherlock's favour.

Sherlock stayed where he was, unmoving, letting his gaze slide out of focus just enough for the people around him to assume he was immersed in the PsyNet as he strained his ears to make out the conversation going on several paces away.

"-are you thinking?" Lestrade was saying.

"We live together," John said calmly. "It's only natural that our scents would overlap a bit. We do spend a fair bit of time..."

Lestrade shook his head and lowered his voice even more as he hissed his reply. Sherlock was only able to catch fragments. "... 'overlap'! He's got your ... all over him. If the Council ..."

"How could they? Unless a changeling tells ... no way ..." John was getting agitated, Sherlock could tell.

Well, that was enough then. Whatever point Lestrade was trying to make, he had had his chance.

Decision made, Sherlock strode over to them, just in time to hear Lestrade say: "I hope he's worth dying for, John."

"Time to go," Sherlock declared, effectively preventing John from responding. "I want to be at the morgue when Dr Hooper starts her examination. Lestrade, remind your imbeciles to hurry up with the surveillance footage."

"They're not-," Lestrade began, but Sherlock had already turned around and was heading towards the street. He could hear John mutter a goodbye before following him.

Sergeant Donovan stood guard at the police tape. She gave Sherlock her usual glare as he approached, then blinked when he came nearer.

"What is that?"

"What?"

"You!" She exclaimed and then turned to stare at John. "Have you gone mad?!"

"I'm as sane as always," John said and there was a hint of a growl in his voice. "Was there something you wished to say?"

Donovan actually took a step back and raised her hands a little. "Oi, don't start with me. It's your head that's going to roll."

"Good night," John bit out and marched past her.

"Care to explain what-" Sherlock began.

"Sherlock!" John called.

"Better go," Donovan said, her voice uncharacteristically soft. Her gaze was fixed on John's back and she looked worried. Sherlock was good enough to notice that. "And Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Watch out for him, will you?"

That threw him. John didn't need anyone watching his back. If Donovan, who didn't normally have a kind word for Sherlock, was going out of her way to talk to him and ask him a favour, something was very wrong indeed.

"I will," he said softly and then lengthened his steps to catch up with John, who had just flagged down a cab and was holding the door open rather impatiently.

Sherlock followed him into the cab and pulled the door closed.

"Morgue?" John asked.

"Yes."

"St. Bart's hospital, please," John said. It was just around the corner, reachable on foot in less than 10 minutes, but he clearly didn't feel like walking. Sherlock found himself staring at his flatmate out of the corner of his eye, wondering what was going on. He decided to ask.

"Care to tell me what that was about?"

"Nope."

John didn't even look at him, just stared fixedly ahead, his body tense and poised, as if he were ready to fling himself out of the car at any moment.

"Donovan asked me to watch out for you," Sherlock volunteered.

John snorted. "Donovan needs to watch that nosy beak of hers."

"She and Lestrade have both acted in a way that does not align with their normal behaviour," Sherlock insisted. "Several of the other officers have also been giving me strange looks. But only the changelings. And only the ones who got within a certain distance of me. I am forced to conclude they found something worth commenting about the two of us, and mostly me, that remains hidden to humans. Therefore, I assume it is something about the way I smell. Am I wrong?"

Several seconds ticked by in silence. Then John sighed and hung his head. "No, you're not wrong. They can smell me on you."

Sherlock shrugged. "We live together. It is only natural for our scents to-"

"No," John interrupted. "They're used to the standard overlap. This is ... more. Different. The way we have been-" he glanced at the cabbie and lowered his voice a bit "-acting ... it leaves a trace. Changelings operate by scent a lot of the time. If you were another changeling or a human, the way your scent has changed would tell other changelings to back off, that you are ... spoken for. It's just because you are Psy that they are all staring."

"I ... see," Sherlock said slowly. But he thought that he didn't see at all. He remembered that John wouldn't use it against him. "No, I don't."

"No you don't," John agreed, smiling slightly. "It's hard to describe. You just ... you smell like you belong to me now."

"And that is a problem?"

"It is if the Council finds out about it. Luckily, Psy and humans just can't smell things at that level and you'll be hard-pressed to find a changeling willing to sell you out to the Psy Council. But if someone does... well, it's rehabilitation for you and who-knows-what for me." He sighed. "Perhaps you were right to revoke my skin privileges. All I did with them was put us both in danger."

Sherlock felt a chill run down his spine - it was not a sensation he was overly familiar with. Exposure to John seemed to be making him more susceptible to sentiment in all its forms - and vastly better at identifying it, too.

"Is that what I did? Revoke your skin privileges?" The idea didn't sit right with him. John was special, he stood apart from the crowd. There should be something for Sherlock to distinguish him from everyone else. And ... well ... he liked John touching him. Which was of course why it was a spectacularly bad idea.

"It's for the best," John said softly. "Let's solve this case and deal with everything else later. Your scent will go back to just you soon enough if I exercise some restraint. You'll be safe."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, to point out that it wouldn't do any good, that he didn't want to go back, that he had already made up his mind, that danger had never scared him off of doing something. But he remembered Mycroft's words and Molly's, remembered the worried look in Donovan's eyes and felt the cold fist of fear in his chest clench ever tighter.

"Yes," he found himself saying as the cab came to a stop outside St Bart's hospital. "I can't be distracted now. Very logical of you, John. Nothing really happened anyway."

*****

John followed Sherlock out of the cab and into the laboratory, barely aware of where he was going.

Of course it was the right decision. On a purely logical level, it was sensible. The only correct decision. Nothing should ever have happened between them in the first place. He had been taking liberties, using Sherlock's curiosity and desire to experiment to satisfy his own need for touch. It was only right that Sherlock step back, revoke all skin privileges and return to the status quo they had established in the first few months after John had moved in.

It all made sense and yet every fibre of his being was crying out against it, both halves of him hurt and keening. The idea of Sherlock's scent losing any trace of John made his chest ache.

He could feel his cat close to his skin, desperate to get out, as if by giving up this part of himself, he might get Sherlock in return.

It was stupid and dangerous to more people than just himself. He might lose control again, the PTSD destroying all rational thought. And if by some miracle it didn't and he stayed in control of himself, he would still be endangering Sherlock, subjecting him to the Psy Council's scrutiny. The Councillors, so rarely seen and so very powerful, were the dark spectres looming over their lives. Before meeting Sherlock, John had never expected to end up subjected to their laws.

There were a lot of things he had never expected to do before meeting Sherlock Holmes.

_'And look at me now,'_ he thought, slinking into the lab after the Psy.  _'Torn to pieces because a Psy won't touch me.'_

"Hello John," Molly greeted him. "How are you?"

"Hm? Oh, good. Fine. Yeah. Thanks Molly. How are you?"

She smiled a brittle smile and he ached all over again with the thought that Sherlock could be like this - his Silence shattered, his emotions on display for everyone to see - if only he would choose to. If only he were safe to do so.

"I'm all right and I appreciate the question," Molly told him. Of course she would, John thought. There probably wasn't anyone else who would be stupid or presumptuous enough to ask.

"There has been another one," Sherlock told her. "They will bring the body here within the next minutes, I should think."

Molly nodded and pulled out her datapad "I will make sure the morgue is ready so I can start the autopsy as soon as possible. It's been a slow day so I should be able to get started without too much delay. And if we are lucky, we will find the chemical compound again."

"It is a Psy this time," Sherlock informed her. "Our bodies may break it down differently than changelings do."

"A Psy?" Molly echoed. "That does not fit the pattern."

"Perhaps we haven't seen the full pattern yet," Sherlock said, perching on a chair with his eyes on the clock. "I told Lestrade to get the body to you as soon as possible so we can look for the compound immediately."

"They just arrived," John said, his ears having picked up the familiar sound of a car stopping and a stretcher being brought into this part of the building.

Molly nodded at them both. "I will see you shortly in the morgue."

She left to intercept the ambulance crew and officers. John and Sherlock remained behind - the former because he wanted to avoid another encounter with judgemental changelings outside his own pack, the latter because John was staying and the officers didn't like to see him attend autopsies. He would walk in as soon as they were gone - they couldn't disapprove of what they did not know, after all.

Alone in the lab, the silence stretched between them. John wanted to fill it, to start a conversation, to get them back on track, but the words died in his throat.

Sherlock had made his position clear. He had revoked all skin privileges and just minutes ago in the car he had agreed that it would be best to end his experiment before it could do any more damage. He hadn't said so explicitly, but John didn't need him to. It was obvious enough that any intimate association could only cause Sherlock trouble and danger and they already had plenty of both in their lives.

And perhaps in time John would get over it and stop feeling as if he had just agreed to hack off a vital limb.

He was already denying himself the simple yet complex joy of shifting, of being himself. Now he would also have to deny himself the one thing he and his cat both wanted - a Psy who had been given the choice between ending in fire or ice and had chosen ice.

 


	13. Chapter 12

The morgue was cool and quiet by the time Sherlock deemed it safe to go there without walking into any members of Scotland Yard's finest. They had left the body on one of the metal tables in the middle of the room and Molly was already bent over a nearby desk, filling in paperwork. She glanced up when he entered.

"Where is John?"

"Went to get some coffee," Sherlock said. "He should be here in a couple of minutes."

That was what he hoped, at least. Surely John would tell him if he chose to leave? He always had. But he'd also never been as tense as in the cab just now and things had never been this complicated between them before. Even in the first days of their flatshare, they had somehow understood one another, had fallen into a rhythm as easily as if they had known each other all their lives. Now, a spike had been thrown between their wheels and it didn't help to know that he was the one who had put it there.

John deserved someone like him, someone human or changeling, who didn't come with a murderous Council on his back and a lack of emotional anything. He deserved someone who could touch him without getting a brain haemorrhage

Sherlock imagined John finding someone like that and the scalpels on the table next to him rattled.

He hastily buried the thought. There. If this was what happened when he entertained a purely rhetorical question, how could he ever consider risking anything happening for real? If the idea of John and someone else did this to his self-control, what would the thought of John and him do?

A wise man wouldn't have speculated, but Sherlock had never claimed to be wise and so he was not at all surprised to find himself entertaining the idea.

John's hands in his hair again. John's mouth on his throat. John's mouth on his mouth.

He realised he was stroking his lips and quickly lowered his hand, feeling deeply unsettled and ever so slightly flushed.

_'Ridiculous. The morgue is notoriously cold, there is no reason to feel hot.'_

Was this something all people who had never been Silent experienced all the time? He had no one he could ask and none of his teachers had ever thought to tell him. It was becoming increasingly clear that in the sea of emotion, he was entirely out of his depth.

Behind him, Molly stated her name and all the other tedious data she needed to be recorded for her report before moving on to carefully describe the body and every article of clothing before and after removing and examining them before setting them aside for later. Then came the examination and description of the naked body, with every finding precisely dictated in Molly's clear voice.

Sherlock waited impatiently for her to start the internal autopsy and then moved to stand closer.

"Since you're already here, you can help," Molly told him. "Hold up and turn the organs when I've extracted them so I can get a good look at the outside without anything getting compressed in a bowl."

With anyone else, the assumption that he would simply make stuff float for them would have had Sherlock biting back a snarl. For Molly though, he would make an exception. She didn't need to let him watch. This was the compromise they had arrived at: Sherlock was allowed in during autopsies and used his telekinesis as directed while he was there.

"Would you like me to crack open the ribcage once you have made the incision?" he offered.

Molly shook her head. "I will do it myself, thanks."

But first, she held her hand over the body, closed her eyes and focused. "Brain haemorrhage, as suspected," she concluded. "Time of death was precisely one hour and 27 minutes ago. They got him here very quickly."

They shared a satisfied look. Psy everywhere appreciated efficiency.

"Perhaps we may successfully extract some of that chemical compound," Sherlock mused. "I know you have a procedure to follow but how quickly can you get to the stomach?"

"Quite soon," she assured him. "I will have to start from the top, as always, but we already know the cause of death, so I will merely check to avoid missing anything. If the compound is present, these couple of minutes will not make a difference. The other victims had been dead for several hours more before I got to them. If there is anything for us to find, we will find it."

Satisfied, Sherlock nodded.

"John is taking quite some time," Molly noted as she examined the victim's head and neck.

"Perhaps there is a queue. Or he met Stamford on the way," Sherlock said, trying to sound as if he wasn't worried. "Changelings are sociable - he will stop for a chat with anyone if there is no pressing need for him to be somewhere."

"He is very friendly," Molly agreed. "Perhaps you are right."

She examined the dead body in front of her dispassionately, then reached for the scalpel and began on the Y-incision.

"Though he does not usually miss the opportunity to spend time with you away from ... other people."

Sherlock knew what she had swallowed back at the last moment: prying eyes. It had occurred to him as well. In Molly's presence, John treated him almost the same way he would treat him in the privacy of their own home. Well, without all the clearly sexual innuendo, half of which Sherlock was sure he didn't even notice.

"We can't always go everywhere together," he said briskly. Suddenly, the morgue felt quite cold.

He had meant it as a simple fact but Molly nodded wisely. "Of course. People might talk."

"There is nothing to talk about," Sherlock informed her stiffly. It really was quite cold in here. He wished he had brought his coat.

Molly peeled back flaps of skin and softer tissue before replying. "I see the way he looks at you," she said. "And you look sad when you think he can't see you."

"You see me," Sherlock managed, too surprised to react to the rest of her statement. Too surprised to point out that Psy didn't get sad.

Molly gave him a long look that suggested he was an idiot. "Yes, but I don't count."

He didn't know what to say to that and she clearly didn't expect a reply. Instead, she turned her attention back to the body and began opening the ribcage.

"If it's any help, I think he is very good for you."

Sherlock took a small breath. "So do I."

Molly nodded. "You are good for him, too."

That, on the other hand, he could not agree with. If the Council ever found out, they would put John's head on a spike - both as a warning and as revenge for the recent high-profile defections. He didn't care what would happen to him so long as they left John alone. Distance was key. The Council had no grasp of emotion whatsoever, they would not be able to understand that John meant everything to him if he stayed well clear. And if they tried to test his Silence ... well, he had been successfully lying to them since he was a child.

Finally, the door opened and John entered, moving soundlessly and carrying a tray with three steaming cups. "I brought tea for the two of you," he announced. "Barely dipped the tea bag in it, so all you get is hot water with the tiniest hint of flavour."

"That is very considerate of you," Molly said. "You can put mine over there for when I take a break."

John did and handed Sherlock the other cup. Their fingers brushed and he jerked his hand back as if he had been burned. "Sorry."

That he would apologise for an accidental touch felt like yet another nail in the coffin of Sherlock's equanimity.

*****

The autopsy seemed to drag on unnaturally long before Molly finally extracted the stomach and asked Sherlock to lift it for her. "It looks normal from the outside," she observed. "But that is to be expected."

She laid it out on a neighbouring table and a couple of precise incisions laid the inside bare. "Hardly any contents," she murmured.

"Is that normal?" John asked, stepping closer to get a better look. It didn't escape Sherlock's notice that where John would have stood next to him before, he now chose to round the table and stand next to Molly. He bit back a snarl.

"Quite," Molly confirmed. "Our nutrition bars and instant meals are broken down and absorbed quickly and we don't need to eat as much of them as you do of ordinary food. A full stomach would have been more surpr- I mean, would have been less expected."

She turned to look at Sherlock. "Can you float this over to the microscope?"

He did, careful to keep the stomach and all its contents together and unmoving.

Molly took samples and placed them on the glass slides, positioning them under the bright light of the microscope. There were particle analysers she could have put the samples in, but like most scientifically-minded Psy she preferred taking a look by herself first, to see the bigger picture a machine would miss.

"Nothing."

"Interesting," Sherlock murmured.

"Do you think it was a different person who killed him?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "I think he didn't need any chemicals this time around because his victim was Psy. Low gradient, I would say. Any mental shields he had would have been far easier to break than those of a changeling."

John sucked in a breath. "You think he drugs them. The changelings."

"Yes. Make them just a bit less aware. Some were seen stumbling a couple of times before collapsing. It was simply assumed to be a side effect of their minds being invaded, but I think it was the drugs at work. The boy in the Tube was clinging to the hand rail until his knuckles turned white - it was quite clear on camera. He drugs them, follows them until the drug takes effect, and strikes when they are weakened."

"That would certainly make it easier," John agreed. "Makes me want to stop eating away from home."

"If we tell Mrs Hudson, she will make sure it will not be an issue," Sherlock pointed out.

John laughed. "True. Good thing you Psy only eat your gross nutrition bars. It's harder to poison these than to put something in a person's food while they aren't looking. Though it might have been in the drink."

Molly shook her head. "If it had been, we would not be able to see it so clearly. If it doesn't dilute in water to the point of being unnoticeable, it will be detected."

"Right, hadn't thought of that," John said and shook his head. "Sorry, I'm not at my best right now."

"You lost a friend," Molly said softly. "I believe grief may account for your distraction."

Sherlock jerked a little before remembering the ocelot changeling. Soraya. This was about her, not about whatever was happening between them. John hadn't lost him. John _wouldn't_ lose him. And Sherlock would not lose John either. That was the entire point of this.

Then his mind caught up with him. 'Friend' Molly had said. Were they friends? They must be. They lived together and hadn't tried to kill each other even once and John seemed to actually enjoy his company and if he weren't trying to be Silent, Sherlock might be willing to admit that John's company was ... welcome. And they had touched. That was what friends did, wasn't it? Touching and offering food as John often did when he forgot that Sherlock didn't eat it. And touching. Mustn't forget that. The warm hand on the back of his neck ... surely only a friend would touch you in such a vulnerable spot without killing you.

Sherlock felt his frustration rise. Why had no one ever bothered to teach him this? How was he supposed to figure all of this out when he had no frame of reference?

He recalled that John had called him his friend some time ago, before they had embarked on this touch experiment.

And then he remembered that it didn't matter. They  _couldn't_ be friends. They  _couldn't_ touch. And they  _definitely_ couldn't be or do anything more than that.

He kept forgetting and having to remind himself and every time it felt like a rock dropping into his stomach. For the first time in his life, Sherlock found himself fervently wishing he were anything other than Psy.

_'But I'm not,'_ he thought, feeling determination bubble up inside of him.  _'I am Psy and the Psy are Silent. I can't change being Psy. But I can tear Silence apart. For John, it will be worth it.'_

*****

John breathed a sigh of relief when they finally left the morgue and returned to the lab. Medical training he might have, but autopsies had never been his thing and spending hours in a cold room watching someone take apart a dead body was not his idea of a good time. Even the sting of chemicals in the lab was better than the smell of decay that clung to the walls of the morgue. Cold it may be, but John's nose was very sensitive indeed and he could smell a body breaking down long before it became physically apparent to anyone else.

He had spent most of the time trying not to breathe through his nose, but it was a bit like trying to walk with your eyes closed - sooner or later, you found yourself sneaking a peek. He had therefore picked up on the fact that something about Sherlock's scent had changed yet again. Not in the baser note of it - the one that was now a satisfying yet painful mix of both their scents - but to the overlaying tone, the ever-changing surface level of emotion and energy and general well-being.

Perhaps the worst thing about their discussion in the cab had been how clearly unhappy Sherlock had smelled about it, as if he no more wished to say the words coming out of his mouth than John wanted to hear them. And yet he had made his stance clear, had said 'no' and set out to cut the ties between them.

John could understand that, could not begrudge him for it at all. No matter how much he wished for things to be different, they were putting themselves and each other in a whole lot of danger with their actions and there was nothing to gain and no way out except the one Sherlock had chosen.

He couldn't drop out of the Net. They did not have a mating bond. Sherlock had never so much as hinted at feeling any sort of sentiment directed at John. His physical reaction didn't count - a body so inexperienced when it came to touch would react to anything and anyone if the situation was consensual.

Now, though, Sherlock smelled ... different. Unhappy still, yes, but angry, too. John wondered what had caused the change, what thought process had made Sherlock arrive at anger.

He knew his Psy would be unlikely to tell him about it, but it didn't matter. Anger in itself was already an improvement, a sign of progress. Anger was a rather volatile emotion. Not something Psy usually experienced. John thought of all their furniture floating around the flat, thought of Sherlock dragging a fleeing suspect toward himself with his Tk, thought of how Sherlock had once smashed a gun in a man's hand from 20 metres away, and found himself fervently hoping that he wasn't the one who had inadvertently triggered Sherlock's anger. Instead, he found himself hoping the Psy Council would be at the receiving end of it.

"Sherlock."

Those kaleidoscope eyes turned to him immediately. "Yes?"

"If you decide to go to war against the world, let me know."

Sherlock blinked. "Pardon me?"

John smiled. "You smell angry."

"My apologies," Sherlock said, his voice and face as expressionless as he could get. After a couple of seconds, even the anger in his scent was damped down as if Sherlock had turned off a tab somewhere.

_'Amazing,'_ John thought.  _'People actually fall for that.'_ He felt a sudden rush of affection for his friend, piling up on top of all the other affection he already held inside. Oh, this was dangerous indeed. His entire being delighted in the thrill of it.

"No need to apologise," he said out loud. "I just wanted you to know that I've got your back. So if and when you decide on a course of action, I will be right there with you."

"No matter what?" Sherlock asked dubiously.

John made sure to meet his gaze as he replied. "No matter what."

For Sherlock Holmes, he would take on the entire world.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important: I'll be flying to Canada on the weekend for a much-deserved holiday and will be staying there for a month. I'm most likely going to have internet for most of my stay but updates may be delayed or come a bit earlier depending on my schedule. Everything should be back to normal on September 9th and I will of course try to update at least once a week until then.


	14. Chapter 13

Sherlock clamped down tight on any hint of sentiment. It seemed to come so much more easily to him these days. He used to have to fight to feel anything, used to have to think about every notion inside of him to figure out if it might be labelled 'feeling'. Now, emotions rushed at him, springing readily to hand. He rarely knew what they were but he was getting better at figuring it out, at making connections between his thoughts and the resulting sentiment.

Anger. He had been angry a lot when he was younger, he remembered.

And then he had been hopeless, once he had confronted the fact that he would never be allowed an outlet for his anger or any other sentiment strong enough to make it through the Silence and reach his consciousness.

The drugs had helped, of course. Jax, the drug of choice was called and it was the one thing the Psy Council had failed to eradicate. All three races were represented in the pie chart of addicts: Humans and even a handful of changelings. But the large majority of users was Psy. As with most drugs, it started so innocently - a way to improve efficiency, to speed up thought processes, a little helper when you got stuck on a problem or were on a tight deadline. And then, slowly, the addiction set in and the doses increased and suddenly you found yourself in the gutter, losing all rational thought and - even worse - control over your abilities.

It had only been when he had found himself unable to summon a piece of paper from across the street that pure horror had shocked him out of his state of depression and despair. And then Mycroft had been there and there was rehab and careful reconditioning and now Sherlock made a wide berth around the Jax users he saw in London's underbelly.

But he had no drugs now and the sentiment was back. This time, he had no desire to push it back down. This time, he would hold on to it, and hang Mycroft and the Council if they didn't like it.

Only a day ago he had told John they could not continue this, had to put a stop to the experiment and stay as far from each other as they could. He would hold on to that. For now. He would hold on to it until he was calmer and the other changelings stopped staring. He would hold himself to his own words until he had a plan of action. And now he knew that when the time came, John would be by his side.

'No matter what,' he had said. Sherlock believed him. He had never before met anyone he would trust unconditionally. But John ... if John said it, it was true. He would be there and he would have Sherlock's back. This time, he would not be alone. Just knowing that someone was on his side made something in his chest ease, made him breathe easier. He would get through this. He had to.

*****

Sherlock blinked and found himself in the sitting room of 221b. He had no recollection of getting out of the cab and walking through the door and up the stairs, but John was in the kitchen making tea and he was standing in the middle of the room.

"Back on earth, then?" John asked. "You almost walked into the door frame there. I don't know how you got out of the cab on your own, you were so deep in thought."

Sherlock blinked again and shook his head. "Apologies. I was ... preoccupied."

"I dare say," John muttered and handed him a cup of tea. Sherlock took a careful sip and nodded to himself. Hot water with just a hint of a taste to it. John had barely dipped the tea bag in the cup for him. It had taken him less than a week to learn how Sherlock drank his tea.

_'Time,'_ he reminded himself.  _'Give it some time. Perhaps in a couple of months or years you will be able to drink tea that has had the tea bag in it for a full five minutes.'_

He held that thought close as he sat down in his armchair and engrossed himself in his datapad. Molly would send him a copy of her full autopsy report as soon as she had written it up and in the meantime he could type up his own mental notes to compare them to hers later.

*****

John watched Sherlock busy himself with his datapad, occasionally sipping his tea, and fought the urge to walk over to him.

Distance, his Psy had asked of him. Distance and no touches. He realised he kept thinking about it, reminding himself and his cat of the promise. He would not break it.

Instead, he made dinner. He needed to be kept occupied in the kitchen for as long as possible, so he began cutting up vegetables for soup and, once he had enough, kept cutting and slicing and dicing until he had enough to freeze several bags of carrots for days when he didn't feel like spending too much time preparing his dinner.

Sherlock's microscope and various experiments aside, the kitchen was mainly John's domain. Out of the two of them, he was the only one who ate ordinary food, after all. Sherlock stole food from his plate sometimes when he was curious but apart from the Chinese dinner after their first case together, John had never seen him eat a full meal. It was nutrition bars and nutrition drinks and nutrition meals and whatever other names the Psy had come up with to describe the same flavourless, bland drivel they called 'food'. The only difference John had been able to make out in his own experiments with Sherlock's food was texture and Sherlock had explained that with shrug and a reference to the importance of varying textures for healthy teeth and jaw muscles.

And so all the buying, cooking and eating of actual food was John's job. As a result, he had gotten surprisingly good at cooking meals for two - one portion for him to have at night and another to take to work for lunch the next day. He remembered how, back in January, he had been so broke he had had to resign himself to some diced chicken. These days, they made plenty of money through Sherlock's fees for his cases, which he insisted on sharing evenly with John, and John had his part-time job at the clinic to supplement his income. These days, meat was a staple in his diet, as it should be. It was just another thing about his life that had been immeasurably improved by Sherlock.

*****

They made it through an entire day without a single touch between them.

John had to nip down the stairs to ask Mrs Hudson for some flour as an excuse to hug her, which he did for far longer than necessary, but he managed to keep from finding excuses to touch Sherlock. It was difficult and went against his entire nature. He tried to remind himself that he and Sherlock never used to touch before this experiment, either.

But of course he hadn't known what Sherlock's skin felt like back then, hadn't had his nose pressed against Sherlock's clavicle and breathed in his scent from this close.

He had promised, though, and he would not break his promise. Consent was important, would always be important, and would always trump his own needs and desires.

So he stayed away from Sherlock, keeping an easy distance of about two metres between them. Close enough to talk. Not close enough to touch. Yet he could see Sherlock tense every time he walked past him, as if he were bracing himself for John to reach out. It only made him more determined to keep his distance.

After a couple of hours, they both settled into a state of semi-relaxation.

Finally, the silence was broken by the chime of Sherlock's datapad. He glanced at it and stood. "There has been another one."

John jumped to his feet. "Where?"

Sherlock made a face. "Leicester Square."

They shared a grimace. Leicester Square was notoriously full of people, mostly tourists. But John was quickly distracted because Sherlock had expressed annoyance and dismay in an obvious facial expression, which was new. His mask of Silence had obvious cracks now. And if John could see them, so would others.

"You need to work on your expression," he found himself saying. "That was too much emotion for a Psy."

Sherlock blinked. "You are correct."

He closed his eyes and when he opened them again, every hint of an emotion had been wiped clean off his face. It was almost scary.

John nodded. "Better."

It wasn't better but it was what Sherlock needed to do if he wanted to continue the life he led.

They left the flat and hailed a cab, making sure to sit as far apart from one another as the back seat of the cab would allow.

"Did Lestrade give you any more information?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "He sent the message as soon as they got word of the incident. I'm checking the PsyNet for more information now."

John nodded. "I'll tell you when we have arrived."

He didn't think Sherlock would find much. There were always Psy around, of course, but not as many as in other parts of the city. The number of people in the square usually made Psy keep their distance, much like the Tube did. Perhaps they would get a couple of witnesses anyway. There was nothing like Sherlock being able to see the crime through the eyes of a witness. Sometimes, the PsyNet had its advantages.

The cab ride only took half an hour and soon enough they reached their destination. Sherlock blinked back into awareness just as the cab rolled to a stop.

"Anything?" John asked hopefully.

"Nothing much," Sherlock replied. "They were too far away to see what was happening. If someone was closer, they have not yet uploaded the information to the Net."

"We wouldn't get much from it anyway, I suppose," John mused as they made their way to the police cordon. "We already know the killer could be anyone and has a bit of a range he can work with."

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed, lifting the tape with a casual thought so he and John could pass beneath it.

"That was quick," Lestrade commented, coming to greet them. "Got another Psy," he added. "This doesn't make any sense."

"Must have been low gradient," Sherlock mused. "Either that or they had a pressing reason to be here at this time of day." He glanced around at the crowds of curious onlookers. "This is no place for a Psy, it's too crowded."

"And yet both the victim and the killer were here," Lestrade said.

Sherlock gave him a blank look. "Your point?"

The DI shook his head. "Fine. Just ... tell us what you can."

"Always tough with Psy," Sherlock muttered as he crouched down next to the dead woman. "She was from out of town. That would explain why she didn't avoid the place. Probably thought she could cut through the pedestrian zone on her way to Piccadilly."

He bent closer and searched her pockets. "Here's her ID," he handed it to Lestrade. "Works as an assistant bank manager in Manchester. Upper middle-class but no excessive wealth. Left-handed." He paused. "There isn't anything else I can tell you about her. Psy don't have much of a life for me to deduce."

He thought for a moment. "John, can you smell anything unusual on her?"

John crouched down next to him and breathed in. "Nothing that doesn't match ordinary Psy, why?"

"I was wondering if she had come into contact with any changelings perhaps. Apparently not."

"Not recently enough for me to smell it," John said. "There also aren't any chemicals, if that was what you actually wanted to know."

"You do know I have a nose, too, right?" Lestrade asked, sounding mildly annoyed.

Sherlock cut him a glance. "Yes, but I don't trust you to tell me everything you smell, whereas John here already knows what I'm looking for."

Lestrade conceded the point with a shrug.

"Same procedure as the last one," Sherlock said. "Get her to Molly as soon as possible, I want to know if she ingested anything she shouldn't have before she died."

"Poor Molly will need a holiday after this," Lestrade muttered. "Or would, if she weren't Psy."

John rather thought that Molly would appreciate a holiday either way. Being Psy didn't seem to stop her from enjoying her spare time. He hadn't told anyone he could smell cats on her every time he saw her at St. Bart's. He'd eat his own tail if she didn't own at least two.

He kept his thoughts to himself and crouched down next to Sherlock to examine the body at least superficially. "She looks just like the others."

The position of her body, curled in on herself with her knees drawn close to her body and her hands resting by her head, as if in her last moments she had been tormented by a terrible headache and instinct had made her raise her hands to her head as if to hold her skull together. Sadness swept through him. She hadn't deserved this. None of the victims had.

He looked at Sherlock: "How do you defend yourself against an attack like this?"

"Shields," Sherlock said. "Mental shields like steel traps around your head. This is why I think the Psy victims are low gradient. Anyone of a high gradient has shields that are close to impossible to penetrate."

John nodded. "So whoever is doing this couldn't ... he wouldn't be able to harm you?"

Sherlock blinked at him. "No. He might try, but it is unlikely he would be successful unless I was already mentally weakened. And even so I could launch a counter-attack to find him in the crowd and use my telekinesis to stop him."

John breathed out. "Okay. Good."

A fierce, wild rage bubbled in his chest at the idea of someone attempting to harm Sherlock. His claws pricked at his skin.

"John?"

He focused on the man in front of him. Sherlock was watching him closely, unblinking, his head tilted sideways a little. He frowned. "You are upset. Why?"

"I'm ... he could kill you," John said, ignoring the curious pack of Foxes surrounding them. Some things needed to be said out loud.

"No. He would fail," Sherlock told him firmly. "Besides, I am sure you would have no trouble finding another flatmate."

"I don't want any other flatmate," John bit out. "Please process this fact and add it to your list of known and confirmed information about me."

Sherlock blinked at him again and his eyes unfocused for a second. "As you wish."

"Are you two done?" Lestrade asked. "I don't mean to interrupt, but we've got to pack up the body if you want it at the morgue ASAP."

John looked around and found several of the officers standing nearby, eyeing them with badly concealed curiosity. Ah, yes. Perhaps he should not make it quite so obvious that his Psy flatmate was the most important person in his life. They were already speculating thanks to the scent thing. He could only hope it would fade soon so they would stop jumping to all the conclusions John wished were correct.

*****

That evening, they had Mrs Hudson up for dinner. Well, John and Mrs Hudson had dinner. Sherlock had a nutrition meal that was so bland John could barely even smell it. It was like sawdust without the scent of wood.

Mrs Hudson told them all about their neighbour's latest escapades and that her tenants were apparently considering renewing their vows.

"Why?" Sherlock asked. "They already came to an agreement and signed the contract."

"You make it sound like a business deal," Mrs Hudson said, shaking her head. "No, dear, this is emotion."

"They're renewing their vows to reaffirm their commitment," John tried to explain. "To show each other that after all this time together, they still wouldn't want anyone else."

"Not getting a divorce seems to cover this," Sherlock said, frowning.

John and Mrs Hudson shared a look. "It's different," John said. "It's like ... just staying together means you are content, yes. But reaffirming your vows ... it's saying that if you could turn back time, you wouldn't make a different choice. You'd still choose that one person, no matter what happened between you over the years."

Sherlock nodded but it was clear that he didn't understand this at all. John decided to let it drop. There was only so much he could do.

John returned to his conversation with Mrs Hudson and left Sherlock to his own thoughts, wherever they might have gone. From the look in his eyes, he might have gone into the Psy Net.

It made John's skin itch, to think that Sherlock had flung part of his mind, his conscience, out of his body and into the ether, that he was in the mental equivalent of the internet. Were there safeguards? There had to be. He had mentioned shields before and John knew all changelings had natural shields. Did that mean Sherlock had built his shields himself? Was he protecting himself adequately? What was it he was looking for in other people's minds?

John wanted to ask but didn't know how. Or if he was allowed. He wondered what it looked like, the Psy Net. Was it visible at all? Was it a concept? A feeling? No, Psy didn't feel things. They wouldn't base the most important thing they had on feelings.

"John?"

"Hm? Oh! Sorry, Mrs Hudson. I got lost in thought."

"Can't be familiar ground then," Sherlock said absently. Apparently he had decided to join them on the physical plane once more.

John threw a napkin at him. It did a sharp U-turn before reaching Sherlock's face and flew straight back at John. He caught it, cursing Sherlock's telekinesis that wouldn't even let him throw stuff at the insufferable man.

"Never mind, dear," Mrs Hudson said before John could think of something else to throw. "He's just a grouch."

John grinned. "So he is. Now, what was it you were saying?"

They returned to their conversation and he barely noticed as Sherlock stood and drifted away towards his bedroom with a muttered goodnight to Mrs Hudson.

"Is he all right?" Mrs Hudson asked once the door had closed behind the Psy.

"I assume so," John said, confused. "Why?"

"Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"All right," she said, raising her eyebrows at him. "Only you haven't touched him all day."

"He's Psy," John pointed out. "Psy don't touch at all."

"He lets you touch him." Mrs Hudson laid it down like a well-known fact. "Because you need the contact. Perhaps because he does, too, somewhere deep down."

John snorted and shook his head. "The Psy don't like touch, you know that. He's no different."

"Isn't he?" she asked.

But she didn't push any further and swiftly changed the topic instead, leaving John with no option to respond. Not that he would have known what to say anyway.

She was right, of course. Sherlock was different. Always had been, from the moment John had first met him. Those eyes, that voice, that scent of his ... the complete and utter lack of metallic stink. The way he moved and talked, his behaviour, his warmth. The way he let John walk behind him and trusted him not to reach out and break his neck like a twig. He could, if he wanted to. The very thought was abominable. But the fact remained that he could. And Sherlock, within a day of meeting him, had trusted him with his life.

In hindsight, John wondered if that said more about the value Sherlock placed on his own life than about his trust in John.

It was a disturbing thought and kept haunting him long after Mrs Hudson bade him goodnight and returned to her own flat for the night. And so John was left alone in the sitting room, trying to tell himself that of course Sherlock trusted him.

But he couldn't help but remember how Sherlock would run after criminals and straight into oncoming traffic without a thought to his own life, how he experimented with dangerous chemicals and used to be a Jax addict. How he had once played poker with a serial killer without any cards whatsoever and been ready to take a potentially poisoned pill just because he could.

Was it really so difficult to believe Sherlock would care if his own flatmate broke his neck? Was it so unlikely that he would experiment with touch and risk a cerebral aneurysm or even a stroke just for the flimsy excuse of not being caught off his guard if anyone else ever dared to touch him the way John did?

The longer he thought about it, the less certain John was that the answer was 'Yes'. And it scared him more than he could ever say.

 


	15. Chapter 14

Four days passed without anything happening at all.

There were no new bodies or any other breakthroughs in the case. Sherlock solved a handful of smaller matters for private clients and John took an entire day to deal with the accumulated bills. He accepted every shift the clinic was willing to throw at him and kept himself so busy he barely managed to eat when he came home before falling into bed, completely exhausted.

He hadn't touched Sherlock in a week. His hands itched with the need to reach out, his whole body swayed in the direction of his Psy whenever he was in the same room. And yet they didn't touch.

John felt hurt to his very soul at the lack of contact. Mrs Hudson, acting on her changeling instinct, had taken to hugging him at every opportunity. She greeted him with a kiss to his cheek and a hand on his arm or shoulder.

"You need to shift, John," she told him sternly. "How long has it been? Over a year? John, this is getting dangerous. Do you really want to risk never being able to shift again?"

It was a valid concern, he knew. He just couldn't bring himself to do it. The fear of losing half of himself was almost paralysing but still not as terrifying as embracing it and accidentally killing someone. Or several someones.

He couldn't explain it. How did you even begin to say you were afraid of turning into a mindless killing machine? He had never been scared of his cat before Afghanistan. But then the war had happened and his last shift had been in the middle of a living nightmare and the PTSD had set in and now the very idea of shifting again made him break out in a cold sweat. Because _what if...?_

"I'm just ..." He shook his head. "I can't."

"You won't," Mrs Hudson corrected. "Why don't you ask some of your old army contacts or some of your predatory changeling friends if they have a safe place for you to shift in? Somewhere secure where you can't get out if you do lose control?"

John merely sighed and shook his head. "You'd need an underground bunker to contain me, Mrs Hudson. And those don't just grow on trees."

She pursed her lips. "I dare say they don't. What you are thinking of are apples, dear. You might have to go looking for a peculiar potato plant instead."

"Ha. Why is it that everyone else goes picking apples while I end up looking for peculiar potatoes?"

Mrs Hudson smiled. "Perhaps they are simply more to your liking, dear."

Her words hit rather closer to home than John would have liked. He was unhappily certain that the only thing to his liking would never be free to feel any such thing in return.

*****

John was getting worse.

Sherlock could see it clearly. There was a new tightness around his eyes and the pesky tremor in his hand was back. Sherlock decided he hated the very sight of it.

Hate - another emotion he had not previously encountered. He had ended up searching the internet for emotions and their descriptions, reasoning that if he couldn't get rid of sentiment, he might as well learn to recognise it. Perhaps it would help him to keep it under control, safely hidden away so no one might notice his struggle.

He saw the tremor in John's hand and wanted it gone, wanted the very idea of it banished from the world. He wanted to reach out and grasp John's shaking fingers and hold them until they finally lay still against his skin.

This was another sentiment Sherlock had learned about: desire.

He did not know what to make of it, did not know what to think about many of its implications, foreign as they were to him. But the accuracy of its definition could not be denied. He wished for John's hand on his skin, wished for the easy companionship they had shared before he had decided to cut his experiment short. He wished, more than anything, to be able to reach out and touch John whenever he liked. Which, if he was being entirely honest with himself, appeared to be all the time.

It was quite inconvenient, this. In the beginning of his experiment, he had been curious, had wanted to learn what made humans and changelings so eager to engage in physical contact. He had wanted to learn, to get used to touch so he himself might never be taken by surprise by it.

And yet it appeared that his plan had backfired in a spectacular fashion. At some point, either in the middle of his experiment or after its conclusion (or, perhaps, right at the beginning), he had indeed been taken by surprise by touch. And now he could not get enough of it. It really was most inconvenient.

Sherlock's own struggle, however, paled in comparison to seeing John suffer.

How could he possibly watch John cave in on himself and remain silent?

Grief.

That had been the first emotion Sherlock had looked up.

How did people deal with the loss of a friend? Surely that was what held John in its grip. His friend had died. They had been busy with more murders in the immediate aftermath but now there was nothing and John had thrown himself into his work.

Sherlock knew Mrs Hudson was trying to offer whatever comfort she might give and yet John appeared no better. If anything, he seemed to be getting worse.

What could he do? Was there anything to be done at all?

Sherlock was not an idiot. He knew he was entirely unequipped to deal with his own surfacing emotions, let alone John's much better developed ones. Therefore, someone else was required. Someone who knew John and sentiment. Perhaps even someone who also knew the friend John was grieving for.

Sherlock nodded to himself. Luckily, he knew just where to look.

*****

"You're mad," Lestrade said, shaking his head as the car inched through traffic. "Absolutely barking. Sally, back me up here."

Sally was all too happy to follow this particular command. "You've lost your mind."

"Thank you for this very scientific analysis," Sherlock said. "It is not helpful in the slightest."

"Oh, I think that was sarcasm," Lestrade noted. "Didn't know Psy could do that."

Sherlock turned his head to glare at him. "Keep this up and I'll show you some other things you never knew Psy could do."

Sally leaned through the gap between the driver's seat and passenger seat. She had unbuckled her seatbelt in direct disregard of traffic laws and police procedure on the grounds that even a crawling infant would be faster than the car they were currently in.

"Was that innuendo?" she asked, grinning. "Holmes, I think John has been teaching you some things while we weren't looking." She gave a fake gasp. "Is that why you smell like each other?!"

Sherlock frowned. "What on earth could John possibly teach me that I do not already know, other than medicine?"

Sally shrugged. "Hell if I know. I thought you two might be playing doctor."

"John's skills as a medic are quite sufficient, there's really no need for me to learn any of it, too," Sherlock pointed out.

Apparently that was the wrong response because he caught Sally rolling her eyes at Lestrade in the rear-view mirror.

"What?"

"Nothing," she said innocently.

Sherlock forced himself to keep his expression neutral. He disliked it immensely when people refused to tell him things he had clearly missed.

"Fine. Why are you even here? I don't remember asking you to come."

"Procedure," Sally said happily. "No officer goes out alone. Heaven knows I don't particularly want to be stuck in this car with you, but I'll be damned if I miss the chance to see you eaten alive."

"In that case, you will be disappointed," Sherlock told her. "I do not intend to get eaten. I merely intend to ask them some questions."

She shrugged again. "Whatever. It's your funeral."

This argument had been going on and off for almost an hour now and the outcome remained the same: Sally was convinced he was going to die, Sherlock was convinced he would not, and Lestrade just wanted both of them to shut up, thank you very much.

The DI got halfway through saying so again, but the light finally turned green and traffic moved again, much to everyone's relief.

As was so frequently the case with London traffic jams, the reason for the delay never quite appeared. One minute, they were crawling along at snail's pace, the next everyone simultaneously seemed to remember what the gas pedal was meant for and they were back in free-flowing traffic, without anyone ever being able to pinpoint the precise moment of the shift.

"Are you really sure about this?" Lestrade asked again as they passed Elephant and Castle.

"One hundred percent," Sherlock said.

"Fine. We did warn you, though."

"Just make the introduction," Sherlock sighed. "And I'll do the rest. Just ... make it clear I'm not ... you know."

"An ordinary Psy? I think they'll reach that conclusion on their own if they wait long enough to listen to anything you have to say before tearing out your throat."

It wasn't very encouraging, but Sherlock knew it was the best he was going to get. It had taken him half an hour to talk Lestrade into taking him here at all and the DI had only agreed after Sherlock had threatened to make the trip himself.

"What did you tell John about where you were going?" Sally asked. "I thought he'd want to come along for sure."

So had Sherlock, which was precisely why he hadn't told John where he was going. "John is at work."

They made a left turn and Lestrade steered the car along the outer edge of a rather long park. He found a suitable parking spot and parked the car. "There we are. Remember, no telekinesis, no funny stuff, try to keep your mouth shut for as long as possible. And for the love of god think carefully before you do say anything."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not an idiot, Lestrade. Can we go now?"

They got out of the car and stretched their legs a little, all of them relieved to be able to move a little.

"There they are," Lestrade said, being the first to notice the three people headed their way. They emerged from underneath the trees and approached quickly - two males and one female.

Sherlock watched the fluidity of their movements and nodded to himself. Predatory changelings. They were wary but respectful of Lestrade and Donovan in their roles as members of Scotland Yard. The treaties between London's many different changeling packs gave them every right to be here. But these same treaties did not apply to consulting detectives. They especially didn't apply to Psy.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" one of the men asked, coming to a stop five feet away from them and crossing his arms.

"That's me," Lestrade said, taking one step forward. "And this is Sergeant Donovan from the DarkStorm wing. You are WhiteSpot?"

"That's right," the man said. "Is this about Soraya and her mate?"

"In a way," Lestrade hedged. He nodded at Sherlock. "Our companion here has a couple of questions for you."

Three pairs of eyes fixed on him. The woman took a step forward and hissed. "He's Psy."

"So I am," Sherlock confirmed. "My name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm a consulting detective with Scotland Yard. I work on the case of your lost packmates, though that is not why I am here today. Not directly, at least."

Lestrade and Donovan turned to him. "What?"

"You said you needed to speak to the Ocelot pack!" Lestrade snapped. "What do you mean, this isn't about the case?"

"We have nothing to say to a Psy," the third member of the changeling group said and his voice was only a small step above a growl.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "How about the flatmate of John Watson?"

It was a gamble, but not a big one. Sherlock knew John and he certainly knew the kind of loyalty John inspired in the people who met him.

For several long seconds, the three changelings simply stared at him, taking him in. It was the woman who finally relaxed. "Sherlock Holmes. I thought the name sounded vaguely familiar." She turned to her two companions. "John mentioned him when we met in the pub a while back, remember?"

The open hostility on the male's faces gave way to wary curiosity.

"What do you want?" the taller of them asked, clearly the spokesman of the group.

"I need you to tell me what to do," Sherlock said calmly. "I am not equipped to deal with sentiment but it is obvious that John suffers. He has not said anything to me except that he was friends with your packmate. Now she is dead and he is ... not his usual self. He is losing weight and his mental equilibrium appears shaken. I do not know how to make it better."

The woman frowned. "Is there no one he can go to for comfort?"

"I believe our landlady is trying her best," Sherlock told her. "But she is a deer changeling and John is not. I do not know if that makes a difference. But I thought if he was friends with one member of your pack, he must know all of you as well. You are predatory changelings, you stand a better chance of knowing what to do."

They exchanged glances and the woman took another step forward.

"Emily..." the tall male began but she waved him off. "Leave it, Ty."

She stepped closer until she was a mere two feet in front of Sherlock. She was small, smaller than she had first appeared, and carried herself proudly. Her gaze was piercing as she studied Sherlock from head to toe.

"John mentioned you," she said. "He said he's never seen a Psy like you."

He could see her nostrils flare and her eyes flashed with surprise. "You smell like him."

The two males shifted behind her. Sherlock didn't know what that meant - surprise? Unease? It was impossible to tell.

The woman - Emily - nodded. "You got yourself a police escort to get a chance to talk to us and you came all this way just so you could ask us to come and help John. Why?"

Sherlock frowned. "I just told you. He is not well. I do not know how to help him."

For some inexplicable reason, that made her smile. "I have never met a Psy who wanted to help anyone," she said.

_'Oh'_ Sherlock thought.

"Tell me something."

"Anything you want to know," he found himself saying. "Provided I know the answer. If I don't, I can find out. I'm good at that."

She raised her eyebrows at that but merely asked: "When was the last time John shifted?"

"I can't tell you the precise date," Sherlock said. "But it was the day he received a bullet in the shoulder in Afghanistan. To my knowledge and by his own admission, he has not shifted since. When he first moved in, he told me his ... other form would not be a problem. Clearly he was wrong."

The changelings shared a look.

"Come with us," Emily said and her voice left no room for argument. "It seems we have a lot to talk about, Sherlock Holmes."

 

 


	16. Chapter 15

The WhiteSpot den was a large red brick building on the other side of the park. Sherlock knew that the changeling packs in most of the world were hesitant to share the location of their homes but in London there was simply not enough space for the members of a pack to frequent a certain spot without being noticed. Everyone knew the StormClaw wing resided in the Tower of London - probably the most well-known location in the entire city. It wasn't hard to get information on any of the other packs, either. The treaties ensured that no outsiders would set foot in the immediate surroundings of another pack's den and warning signs kept humans at bay. If anyone was stupid enough to ignore them, they did so at their own peril. It was all very carefully arranged and hammering out the politics of it all had taken several decades and quite a bit of bloodshed.

Neither the ocelots themselves nor this specific pack where very big and they comfortably fit into the large house with its many hidden exit routes and direct access to the park where they could stretch their legs and where their cubs could play under the watchful eyes of the adults.

Sherlock deduced all of this from the location and design of the building alone, supplemented by the knowledge about the various London changeling packs he had accumulated over the years. That information had grown exponentially since word had gotten around about John, causing other changelings to come to him for help.

Sherlock had never thought that one day he would have to beg help of a changeling pack instead of vice versa.

"We're not going in," Emily announced, halting about fifty yards away from the building and the playground that had been set up in the trees next to it. A couple of young ocelots could be seen playing in the trees, practising their climbing skills and playfully swiping at one another with their paws. A handful of adults stood guard around them, eyeing the intruders warily.

The as of yet nameless changeling who had accompanied them here peeled away from them to approach the group. There was a short discussion and the adults threw anxious looks at both Sherlock and their cubs.

He frowned. Did they think he would harm their children? Was that how low the Psy had sunk in the eyes of the rest of the world?

The male said something else, gesturing now, and the adults appeared to relax a little. The children merely continued their play, oblivious to the tension.

"There is no need to interrupt their play," Sherlock said softly. "We can talk out here or in there or anywhere else. Whichever is most suitable for you."

Emily, who seemed the least hostile towards him, bit her lip and nodded towards a couple of picnic benches nearby. "Over there. I'm not going to ask you to sit with your back to them because any stranger turning their back on a bunch of adult predatory changelings might as well be suicidal, but if you could at least sit at a 90 degree angle that would help a little."

Sherlock did. It didn't matter to him where he sat and he almost told her he wouldn't mind turning his back on them but the truth was that he did. He was curious and well aware that he was surrounded by what could very quickly become the enemy. At least this way he would not face them head on and hopefully present less of a threat.

Lestrade and Donovan demonstratively sat with their backs to the playground. Law enforcement followed its own rules. In this case, Sherlock thought the rule was probably called _'We can't arrest you for what we didn't see happening'_.

"Have you found out anything new about Sora's death?" Emily asked, sitting down kitty-corner to Sherlock. The other male, Tyson, took a seat next to her but didn't seem inclined to contribute to the conversation.

"Nothing much so far, I'm afraid," Sherlock replied. "I'm sure John has been keeping you up to date as far as the rules regarding ongoing investigations will allow."

Emily lowered her gaze. "He hasn't told us anything more than you have. Just that the investigation is ongoing and he can't say any more. We lost two of our own to this killer. The only reasons the pack isn't acting on its thirst for revenge are our lack of a clear target and the treaties. We are not the only ones who suffer. It would not be fair or within our rights to claim the kill when other packs have an equal right to it." She nodded towards Lestrade and Donovan. "So we will let you do your job but we will be watching. And if you need anything, anything at all, you only have to ask. We may not be a large pack, but the resources we do have are yours if you need them."

"Thank you," Lestrade said gravely. "Your offer is appreciated."

The Yard would not take them up on it and they all knew it, but the offer had been made all the same.

"To get to your actual reason for being here," Emily began, shifting in her seat, "I haven't seen John since we all met at the pub. That was ... before."

Her face crumbled with grief. Sherlock thought it looked rather different from John's.

Which reminded him ... he glanced toward the Yarders. "Do you need to be here for this? I required you to make an introduction but this discussion is private. John would not appreciate your presence here."

"Oh but he won't mind yours, will he?" Donovan asked.

Sherlock gave her a look. "I am here because otherwise there would be no conversation happening, Sally."

"He's right," Lestrade said. "I'm not comfortable listening in on a discussion of John's well-being without his consent. We are not his pack and we work with him. He would not want us here."

He stood and smiled at Donovan. "Why don't we go over there and you can give the kids a little show? Bet it's been a while since they met a raven."

Sally grinned. "Sounds like a plan."

Despite her harsh tone towards Sherlock, it appeared she had not been all that eager to be part of this discussion either.

They walked towards the playground and soon Sherlock was alone with the two ocelots he knew to be John's friends. He could only hope they would be willing to help him.

*****

Emily eyed the Psy seated diagonally across from her with open curiosity. This was John's Psy, then. Sherlock Holmes. An unconventional name for an unconventional Psy.

She didn't know a lot about him - only what John had written in his blog and the few things he had said at the pub. But she was more than capable of drawing her own conclusions.

John's scent was a heavy layer on the Psy male, hugging him like a second skin. It wasn't ingrained deeply enough for an intimate relationship but she was already surprised enough. This, though ... she breathed in deeply ... this smelled of emotional attachment. It wasn't difficult to imagine what John might see in tousled hair, bright eyes and pale skin. Holmes' voice positively gave her the shivers and she could only imagine what he might sound like if he added some inflection when he spoke.

It was harder to see how a Psy could possibly get emotionally attached to anyone, let alone a changeling. Yes, John was a great guy but so were thousands of other people. And yet this Psy had looked at him and seen more. It was obvious to her that the emotional attachment went both ways. Scent aside, no one who was truly unfeeling would have come here to seek their help. The very idea was laughable.

"You're sure John hasn't shifted since Afghanistan?" she asked, forcing herself to tackle the problem at hand. She could be amazed later.

The Psy nodded. "I am absolutely certain. When he first moved in, I asked him about his other form and he refused to answer. He merely said it would not be an issue. For a while, I thought he was latent or had lost the ability to shift due to trauma." He frowned. "Apparently, that can happen to a changeling."

He had clearly done his research, Emily thought. "Yes, though it is quite rare and usually the shift can be achieved again in time."

"I believe he never lost his," Sherlock said. "He still has nightmares about the war and he tends to shred his sheets. It's like he can't fully stop itself from shifting and his claws just punch through."

"That may be how he managed to go without a full shift for so long," Emily mused, turning her head to address Tyson. "What do you think?"

Ty had been unusually quiet since the arrival of their unexpected visitors. Now he shrugged. "Any changeling who goes for an entire year or longer without shifting is putting themselves under great physical and psychological strain. We may be able to survive without shifting for a while, but we need the shift just as much as you lot need your PsyNet," he said, jerking his chin towards Sherlock. "Incidentally - how do we know you won't upload this entire conversation and any information you manage to glean about our pack to your Net?"

It was a relevant question and she wouldn't have expected anything less from one of their Sentinels.

Sherlock Holmes merely looked at him, his gaze calm and steady. "Because if the Psy council found out why I was here, I would be either forcefully rehabilitated or summarily executed. There isn't much of a difference between the two."

A shiver ran down her back at his emotionless statement. Word travelled fast among changelings and they had all heard of rehabilitation at some point or another. The Psy Council was the bogeyman you warned your children about, except that this bogeyman was distressingly real.

"And yet you are here," she murmured. "You must care about John a lot to risk your life and your mind for the sake of any information that might help him."

His expression shut down some more, if that was at all possible. It occurred to her that he was keeping his features neutral on purpose rather than because it was an ingrained habit. Interesting.

"John has become ... essential to my work," he said, choosing his words with care. "It is a difficult task for me to find anyone willing to enter into a flatshare with me, considering the life I lead and all the other drawbacks associated with me."

Emily smiled. "A valid excuse, but it's not why you're here. You care about him. And you are worried for his well-being. You carry his scent, Mr Holmes. There is no point in trying to downplay the importance of your relationship, not when speaking to us."

He shrugged. "Whichever conclusions you draw are yours alone."

Not a denial but no confirmation either. He could not risk to give one out loud, she realised. Even here, you never knew who might be listening.

She decided to let him off the hook for now. "So, you say he hasn't done a full shift since the war and he refuses to do so for his own reasons. Partial shifts at night might help him alleviate some of the pressure and stress but it won't help for long. What about his relationships? You mentioned a deer changeling landlady. That's an interesting combination but I assume their contact is still rather limited."

"Correct," Sherlock said. "It's only been four or five days in which he really started to ... succumb. As we were so very busy with the work before that, I thought he might have pushed aside his grief for your packmate until now. I do not know what to do."

Emily frowned. "You keep saying that as if he'd be completely heartbroken about Soraya."

Sherlock blinked at her. "Why wouldn't he be? That is the standard reaction to losing a friend, is it not?"

"They weren't _that_ close," she started, then paused. How did you explain emotional connections to someone who didn't have any? "The last time they saw each other was before he was deployed to Afghanistan. So yes, he may be sad and shocked by her death, but it would not have gutted him as it does our pack."

"But then why-" he began and trailed off.

Emily shrugged. "Something else must have happened. Do you recall anything happening, anything at all, that would have triggered such a change? Did he have a recent break-up? Did a relationship go south? If he hasn't been getting enough physical contact on top of his refusal to shift, this might have increased his stress levels."

The Psy stared at her, wide-eyed, and she knew she had hit the nail right on the head.

"What happened?"

He shook his head and something like despair flickered across his face. "I revoked his skin privileges to keep him safe."

*****

A moment of silence followed his proclamation.

And then two things happened at once.

Emily and Tyson shouted: "You did what?!" and a general scream went up at the playground.

They all whirled in that direction. Emily gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, and Tyson was already out of his seat and running towards the commotion.

All the changelings, Lestrade included, were staring up into a particularly high tree. Donovan, in her raven form, was circling the tree but was too tall to reach the thin branches on which a young ocelot cub dangled.

"He must have climbed too high to get a better view," Emily whispered.

Sherlock took in the scene - the adults at the bottom, the cub far too high above ground to make it back down on his own. The branches that were far too thin for any of the adult ocelots to climb. And Donovan, too large to get close enough to the cub to grab him.

He stood. "Try to keep your packmates from killing me for this, will you?"

She jumped off the bench and followed him as he strode across the grass towards the chaos. "What are you doing?"

"Saving your cub," he called back and everyone in the vicinity turned to him.

He crossed his arms as several of the males marched towards him, bristling with aggression.

"Would you like him to fall to his death?" he asked.

"What could you possibly do that we can't?" one of the changelings snarled.

Sherlock gave him a bland smile. "This."

A large rock rose from the ground next to him and began to spin gently. "I'm a gradient 9.9 Telekinetic. I can get your cub down here safely, if you trust me enough to let me do it."

He didn't bother pointing out that he would do it anyway. Let them make up their minds on their own. He would not let this cub die. He hadn't needed John's various statements that cubs were the most precious thing to a changeling, treasured above all else.

"But you should decide quickly. I don't think he can hold on for much longer."

The changelings exchanged a glance and then turned as one towards a distraught female who had to be held back by several of her peers to prevent her from climbing after the cub. The mother, no doubt.

"Jessie," Emily called. "It's your choice."

"What?" She clearly hadn't even noticed their conversation.

Emily led Sherlock towards her and the other changelings grudgingly made way for him. "He's a telekinetic," she explained, jerking her thumb at Sherlock. "He will get Hanson down if you agree to it."

The woman looked at him, confused and doubtful. "A Psy?"

"He's John Watson's flatmate," Tyson added, the first neutral words Sherlock had heard him speak so far.

High above them, the cub gave a terrified little shriek.

"Do it," the mother said. "If you drop him, you're dead. If you save him, I'll give you whatever you want in return."

Sherlock didn't waste another second. He had already flung out his telekinesis to form a protective bowl beneath the cub in case he fell while they still argued. Now, he carefully extended it farther, wrapping his power around the cub as carefully as he would handle an extremely unstable chemical. The cub made a startled sound and some of the adults shouted words of reassurance up to him.

"Would you all kindly shut up?!" Sherlock yelled above the noise. "I'm trying to concentrate here."

They fell silent, except for the occasional sob from the terrified mother who had moved to stand underneath the tree, arms outstretched, read to catch her baby if he fell.

Sherlock had no intention of that happening. He carefully lifted the cub away from the branch and lowered him out of the tree into the open air to avoid him hitting any branches by accident.

He was exaggerating the care and concentration this exercise took. It would look more impressive if it appeared like a difficult feat. In truth, it took him barely any focus - or power - at all to lower the squirming cub right into his mother's waiting arms.

A general sigh of relief went through the clearing and Lestrade clapped Sherlock on the back - a rare touch indeed. "Well done, Sherlock."

He shrugged. "John says there is nothing more precious to a changeling than their cub. This pack has seen enough death."

A moment later, Jessie, weeping with gratitude, stood before him, her child clutched in her arms. "Thank you. I don't know how I could ever-"

"Don't bother," Sherlock told her. "Teach him to judge the size of tree branches before climbing onto them. I likely won't be around the next time this happens."

The mother nodded and reached out as if to hug him, then recalled she was talking to a Psy and stepped back. "I will never forget this," she told him. "If you ever need help, I will come when you call."

Sherlock nodded at her and watched her walk away, wondering if she knew how valuable this favour might turn out to be. Favours were the one type of payment he had learned never to refuse.

"She won't be alone," Emily said quietly, drawing Sherlock's attention back to her. "That was my nephew up there."

"I'll be there, too," Tyson added. "But first I want to get back to the conversation Hanson just interrupted with his little adventure."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I thought you might say that."

They peeled away from the pack that had surrounded mother and child and was engaged in what appeared to be a group hug. Sherlock thought even with all the experiments he and John had indulged in being included in one of those would kill him within seconds.

But first things first.

As soon as they were settled back around the table, Sherlock leaned forward and lowered his voice. "If any of this gets out and reaches the Council ears, my life is forfeit. As is John's. Do you understand?"

Emily raised her eyebrows at him. "What the hell did you do?"

Sherlock sighed. "I think ... I think I made a very dangerous mistake."

 


	17. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! You're getting this one two days early because I'm leaving for a week-long camping trip tomorrow morning and didn't want to make you guys suffer while I'm hiking and kayaking in the Canadian wilderness. The next chapter will be up on Monday, Sept. 9th. Enjoy!

"It started out as an experiment," Sherlock said. "A ... a form of self-defence, if you like."

"Self-defence?" Emily echoed.

He realised he would have to elaborate further. "As children, all Psy are taught not to feel. The main impetus is pain. In my mind, strong emotion is linked with pain. There are triggers in my brain that will cause me physical pain if I get too close to breaching Silence."

It was difficult to talk about this. Just mentioning the way Silence worked was already causing him a headache. But it was manageable for now. He had had worse. And he could not stop - not if he hoped to find a way out of the trap he had inadvertently set for himself and John.

"That's barbaric," Emily hissed.

Sherlock shrugged. "We do not know anything else. However, one of the main ways to get us to ... to feel things, is touch. Handshakes are fine, they do not usually carry emotional undercurrents. An embrace, on the other hand ..." He shook his head. "I watched John engage in casual physical contact all the time and it occurred to me that if he were to treat me the same way he treats his .... his other friends ... he might accidentally kill me. Anyone could, if they managed to surprise me with a significant touch. So I decided to build up a resistance."

"A resistance to touch?" Tyson asked. "How would you even- oh."

"Yes," Sherlock said calmly. "I talked John into touching me. He's a doctor and I warned him of the likely repercussions. But I also explained to him that a controlled environment in which I could get used to being touched would be infinitely preferable to someone surprising me somewhere out in the open, with no warning or possible way to defend myself."

"And John went along with that?" Emily demanded. "My god, he must be mental."

"He argued at first," Sherlock said. "But I had the superior arguments."

"Hm, yes, I can imagine what those arguments were," Tyson muttered.

"I just listed them for you so I should hope so," Sherlock told him calmly.

"No, no that wasn't it," Emily laughed. "Sure, John will help anyone with a crazy idea. But that crazy? No, he must not have been able to help himself. We have a hard time saying no to skin privileges when they are being offered by someone we really _really_ want to touch. Having you offer them must have been like Christmas coming early."

She took in Sherlock's puzzled expression and recalled that the Psy did not celebrate Christmas - or anything else. "Like a really fantastic present that you did not expect but always wanted," she translated for him.

He rolled his eyes. "I'm not stupid. I know what Christmas is."

She hummed. "Yeah, right. Anyway, he must have been delighted when you suggested it. And so you ... touched?"

"He took my hand," Sherlock said. "It seemed like a reasonable place to start. We played children's clapping games. He touched the back of my hand. He held both my hands. We spent hours on that."

"Hours," Emily echoed, gazing at Sherlock's hands. "Hmmm, I can see why. Go on. What else? His scent is all over you, it can't have been just that."

"I told him to touch me the way he would his friends," Sherlock admitted. "A hand on my shoulder in passing, grasping my arm to get my attention, that sort of thing. John isn't very tactile for a changeling but he seemed quite happy with these. Eventually ..." he swallowed and forced himself to continue. "Eventually, he hugged me."

He would never forget it for as long as he lived, the moment of absolute safety and security in John's arms. He had never wanted it to end.

"What happened?"

"I developed a nosebleed and lost consciousness," Sherlock said. "That scared him, I think. He got very angry with me. Well, and with the Psy in general for the way we live. He called it cruel and barbaric, just as you did."

"How does that translate to you revoking his skin privileges?" Emily asked. "That sounds more like he would have done so."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, no, I had to... I realised that I couldn't go any further, couldn't take the risk. The urge to ... to reach out... got stronger and started to impact my thought processes. If anyone so much as suspected what we were doing, if the Psy Council found out..."

He shuddered. "They would rehabilitate me and kill him, both as a warning to others and in revenge for the recent high-profile defections from the Net."

"The ones in San Francisco?" Tyson asked. "But that was over two years ago."

Sherlock shook his head. "It wouldn't matter to them. It is still fresh in people's minds. I heard there is a child now. Half Psy, half changeling. The Council likely sees it as a deliberate insult. They will retaliate. If they can't do so directly, they will find other ways. I cannot let John get in the crossfire of that. So I told him the experiment was over and that I had all the resistance I could possibly need."

"But now he's falling apart," Emily murmured. "Shit."

"I don't know why," Sherlock admitted. "I thought it was his grief catching up with him. But you did not seem convinced. You seem to think it's because I ... because I told him 'No'."

"I think you're both idiots," Tyson chimed in helpfully. "Shit, why did John not tell us?"

"Do you think we would have listened?" Emily asked. "I know  _you_ wouldn't have. You spent two days ranting about him living with a Psy. You would have gone berserk at that." She glanced at Sherlock. "Sorry."

He shook his head. "No need. I know what Psy are like. I am one."

He sighed. "John deserves better. I want him to have someone whom he can touch whenever he wants, who won't develop a brain haemorrhage from a simple hug."

"But? There is a but, isn't there?" Emily probed gently.

And Sherlock didn't know why he told her the truth but he did so anyway. "I can't stand the thought of him touching anyone else."

She sighed. "Oh, you complete moron. Clearly neither can he."

Sherlock blinked at her. "I beg your pardon?"

"He doesn't  _want_ to touch anyone else," Emily repeated. "It's why he's falling to pieces like this. You can't just touch a random stranger to fix your need for touch. It doesn't work like that. You have to be emotionally invested in them to some degree. Family, friends, lovers. And that was you, to him. So he can't stand the thought of going out and finding anyone else, of getting attached to someone when you are right there, waiting for him to come home."

Sherlock considered this. "So what do I do?"

She shrugged. "You will have to decide that for yourself. If those other Psy managed to defect, perhaps so can you. If you can't, you need to either let him go or find a way to keep touching him without letting anyone realise that you have effectively broken Silence."

"I haven't-" Sherlock began.

She shot him a look and he shut his mouth.

"I don't care what you think or don't think you have done," she said firmly. "But there is no one else who can help John out now. So ... whatever you do with this information is your decision. We can come by tomorrow for a visit, drench him in friend touch. But it won't be sufficient to replace you. Whatever position you have in his life, you can't just get him a replacement. And getting him to shift won't help solve this issue but we can definitely talk to him about that, too."

Sherlock didn't bother to tell her that he would likely kill any such replacement before they made it within five feet of John, let alone close enough to touch him. From the look in her eyes, he suspected she might know this anyway.

"So what do I do?" he asked again. For the first time in his life he didn't know the answer.

"You go home," Tyson said. "You go home to John. And I'm sure you'll come up with something when you see him."

Sherlock didn't think that was very helpful advise but it was clearly the best he was going to get. So he nodded and stood up.

*****

John had just trudged home from the clinic and all he wanted to do was curl up in bed and sleep for a week.

The flat was empty and he didn't know if that was a good or a bad thing. He checked his datapad but found no messages from Sherlock. No e-mails, no texts, no messages.

Clearly he had gone out, though. At this point, it could be for any reason. A new case. Outright boredom. Perhaps he had been kidnapped. It wouldn't be the first time.

John tried not to worry too much. The last time someone had abducted Sherlock, they had ended up in hospital and the criminal underworld had learned that tying Sherlock Holmes to a chair didn't make him any less dangerous. The entire thing had been over before John had arrived and when he had finally burst through the room with Lestrade and the rest of the Yarders, Sherlock had merely stood up from the chair and brushed the zip ties and handcuffs off his hands like spiderwebs. "I merely wanted you to see the scene in context," he had said and that was that.

So, no reason to worry.

Perhaps he had gone out to Bart's to bother Molly about intestines or an entire ribcage or other interesting body parts. Perhaps he had gone out to work on a case by himself.

That thought didn't sit well with John. He didn't like the feeling of being left behind. He liked it even less when Sherlock was the one doing the leaving.

Stifling a yawn, he took off his jacket and shoes and shuffled into the kitchen to find something to eat. He knew there were still leftovers in the fridge if Sherlock hadn't contaminated them or made use of them in an experiment. But when he opened the fridge, its contents lay untouched.

John frowned and breathed in deeply through his nose. The flat smelled like it always did but Sherlock's scent had gone stale, for lack of a better term. He must have been gone for hours, had probably left soon after John this morning.

Still, there was no cause for concern. Sherlock was an adult, he was free to come and go as he pleased. John had neither the right nor the inclination to hold him back. To put someone like Sherlock in a cage seemed too cruel for words. It was bad enough that his mind, his heart, had been locked in a cage of the Psy Council's making. John would not add any more restrictions to that. He couldn't if he tried.

He shoved the leftover chicken-and-rice dish he had made last night into the microwave and checked his datapad again. Still nothing from Sherlock.

John contemplated sending him a message. Just a quick 'I'm at home, where are you?'. But he couldn't bring himself to type it out or even dictate the message and then the microwave beeped and he turned his attention to his dinner.

Sherlock would come home whenever he felt like it and John would respect that. He did respect that. It was just that he desperately needed to see his face, to breathe in that familiar scent that was so unlike any Psy he had ever encountered.

His right hand shook so badly he almost dropped his bowl. John took a moment to be grateful for being left-handed as he took up his chopsticks. At least he could eat without making a mess.

He finished his meal and dumped the used bowl and chopsticks in the sink to deal with at some undefined point in the future.

God, he was weary to his bones. His very skin seemed to ache. And he knew it would only get worse.

Downstairs, the front door opened and closed. There were quick steps on the stairs and then Sherlock appeared in the door frame. For a moment, he simply stood there, staring at John.

John could do nothing but stare back, watching the surprising play of emotions on Sherlock's face. Surprise, delight(?), worry, resignation, determination. Steely resolve.

John didn't know what any of them meant. "There you are," he said. "I was wondering where you had gone off to. Are you all-"

He didn't get to finish his sentence because Sherlock strode across the kitchen with five large steps, grasped John's face in both of his large hands and crushed his mouth to his.

*****

For a long moment, the entire world seemed to stand still.

Then John's brain caught up to reality and he gasped, mouth moving involuntarily. Reacting, responding.

He reached out, hands grasping Sherlock's waist and the back of his neck to pull him closer, all rational thought banished from his mind as his entire body came to life. It felt like a shot of adrenalin to a sluggish heart, like the first few lungfuls of air after almost drowning.

There wasn't a lot of finesse in it. Sherlock, for obvious reasons, had never before kissed someone. But he had eyes and a brain and it wasn't exactly difficult to find books or films or any random person on the street to study. At least that was what John later surmised he must have done because while he clearly understood the basic mechanics of it, he was quick to cede control to John.

And John took full advantage of the opportunity given to him.

Nothing, not even their experiment, could have prepared him for the sheer heat of Sherlock's mouth, for the little noises he made as John gently took control of the kiss and dragged his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

Unfortunately, what the experiment definitely should have prepared him for was Sherlock collapsing in his arms.

One moment, he was upright, making a sound close to a whimper, and the next his legs gave out from underneath him and John had to struggle not to let him fall to the floor.

He barely managed to lower his crazy Psy to the kitchen floor without him hitting his head on the edge of the kitchen table. A thin trickle of blood had already begun to flow from Sherlock's nose and his eyes had fluttered shut, head lolling.

"You absolute nutter, what did you do that for?" John demanded, one hand checking Sherlock's pulse while the other pressed to his chest to monitor his breathing. All thoughts of sleep and the tremor in his hand were forgotten. "What on earth did you do that for?"

Sherlock didn't reply, of course, and John shook his head in despair. What the hell had his flatmate been up to?

He bent forward and breathed in, letting the various scents wash over him. Trees and the smell of Lestrade's car, Lestrade himself and something feathery that he associated with Sergeant Donovan and the familiar scent of ... ocelot?

John blinked. Why had Sherlock gone to see the WhiteSpot pack? Had they found him somehow? No, they wouldn't go near a Psy without good reason and the only reason they had right now was bloody revenge. Sherlock appeared unharmed. So why had he gone looking for them? He must have spent hours in their company - John could clearly make out Emily and even Tyson, who was far too sceptical of Psy to voluntarily be around one of them.

Why and how had they ended up spending time together?

It was a mystery and John knew he wouldn't find out anytime soon. More pressing concerns demanded all of his attention.

He carefully lifted Sherlock up and carried him down the hall to dump him in his ridiculously comfortable bed.

It wasn't the first time he had had to deal with this and he took a moment to be grateful for Sherlock's warnings and experiments. At least he wasn't succumbing to panic.

"Why would you do that?" he asked again, staring down at the unconscious Psy. "Why on earth would you kiss me?"

There had been nothing soft or hesitant about Sherlock's actions, nothing even close to the way he had conducted any of their experiments in touch. So. Not an experiment, then. It made his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. Sherlock had walked in, taken one look at him and all but lunged at him as if he couldn't possibly hold back for even another moment. That had to mean something and John would be damned if he didn't find out exactly what.

In the meantime, he would make himself a cup of tea and Sherlock a cup of hot water with a hint of flavour and wait until his Psy came around.

Nodding to himself, John stood and forced himself to leave Sherlock alone in his room. He was just down the hallway, he would hear every move the man made. It didn't make it any easier.

John stepped into the kitchen and was halfway to the kettle before he registered the state of their flat.

Loose paper was strewn about, several empty glasses had fallen over, as had Sherlock's music stand. And every single piece of furniture in the flat stood just slightly wrong. It looked as if some invisible force had lifted all of it, given it a good shake and set it down again. It said rather a lot about his own preoccupation at the time that he had not even noticed it happening.

John stared at the chaos. Clearly Sherlock had not been exaggerating the potential dangers of a loss of control. It occurred to John that his idiot Psy might have knocked himself out deliberately to avoid doing any real damage to anything but himself. Oh, they were definitely going to talk about this. But first he would have to wait for Sherlock to wake up.  


 


	18. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note to everyone who has posted a work on A03: You may have heard on tumblr that there's a Russian fanfic website randomly copypasting our works. Apparently their automatic copy engine ignores fics tagged "Don't copy to another site" so I have added this tag to all my fics and recommend you do the same. Also, make sure to check if your stories have been stolen and get them deleted. The website is called fanfics.me and there are guides online on how to get your stuff removed from there. I still haven't figured out how to put links into notes, so that's all the info I can give you.

Sherlock woke sometime in the middle of the night and was not at all surprised to find John sitting on his bed, reading a novel. He looked up the moment he noticed the change in Sherlock's breathing pattern.

"How's your head?"

"Fine," Sherlock lied, grimacing around his pounding headache.

John rolled his eyes. "Here, sit up. I've got the good stuff for you."

Sherlock struggled into an upright position and accepted the glass of water and the fast-acting headache relief with a murmur of thanks.

It took less than five minutes for the medication to kick in and he closed his eyes in relief as the pounding in his skull receded to a dull thrum that was easily ignored.

"That's better."

John hummed and leaned closer to examine Sherlock's eyes with a penlight. "Pupil response is good and your breathing and heart rate sound normal. Looks like you got away with the headache and nothing else."

Sherlock licked his lips and nodded. "Knocked myself out too fast for the full dissonance to set in and do any damage," he said and tried to clear his throat. John wordlessly handed him the glass of water again and Sherlock drained the rest of it.

"Just ... what were you thinking?" John asked, still so close to him that Sherlock could count every individual eyelash.

John looked far less dead than he had earlier in the kitchen.

"You were suffering," Sherlock said simply, and when John opened his mouth to protest, he added: "And so was I."

"Sherlock ..."

He shook his head slowly. "No. I am not sorry and I would do it all over again." He paused, licked his lips. "I  _want_ to do it again. Perhaps not the dissonance and the knocking myself out on purpose, but the rest of it."

"The trashing of our flat?" John asked.

"What?"

"You ... uh ... rearranged the furniture a little."

Sherlock winced. "Oh."

"Nothing is broken, don't worry about it. Just a lot of paper lying around where it isn't supposed to," John assured him. "I cleaned most of it up already."

"Sorry," Sherlock muttered. "It's ... difficult to keep my TK in check when ..."

"When you're kissing me?" John finished for him. "So I gathered. Care to tell me what the hell got into you to make you do that?"

Sherlock sighed and glanced away. He really didn't want to have to look John in the eye when he tried to come up with some sort of an explanation.

"You've been suffering. Ever since I revoked your- your skin privileges, you've been getting worse. And you haven't shifted in almost a year, John, and I know that's not healthy. I wanted to make it better."

"By kissing me," John said flatly.

"No." Sherlock shook his head. "I was going to hug you. We've done that before, I was sure I could cope. I was sure you wouldn't mind."

John snorted at that. "Hm, you seem to have forgotten how hugging works."

"I remember perfectly, thank you very much," Sherlock sniffed. "But I came home and saw you standing there and I couldn't stand another second of ... all of this."

He gestured feebly between them, hoping against hope that John would understand.

"All of what?"

"This," Sherlock repeated. "Us. Whatever this is we're doing. I'm not an idiot, John, and I know this isn't normal. This isn't how people behave even if they are friends. Friends don't fall apart without each other like this. I'm reasonably certain friends don't feel their skin ache with the need to touch. And I'm absolutely certain friends don't-" he swallowed and continued "-don't kiss like they might die if they don't."

"No," John said softly. "No they really don't, do they?"

He bit his lip and turned his head away to stare at the wall.

Sherlock let him, sinking back down onto the mattress while John processed this.

"Why now?" John finally asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "I went to see your friends."

"Yes, I know. I can still smell them on you. Why?"

"I was ... worried," Sherlock admitted. It was difficult to force the word out but this was John. It was safe to admit to sentiment to John. John would understand even if no one else would. "You haven't shifted and you were getting so much worse and your tremor was back and I thought you were grieving for your friend. But Emily said you weren't that close and she suggested you might be ... missing me. That you might miss touching me."

He lowered his gaze. "I'm sorry, John."

John frowned. "What do you have to be sorry for?"

"If I hadn't started us on this experiment, this never would have happened. We could have just gone on as we were and there would be no risk of the Psy Council ever finding out and you wouldn't be in danger and you wouldn't be suffering like this."

John was already shaking his head halfway through Sherlock's reasoning. "No no no. Listen, this ..." He gestured between them, "was going to happen. It was always going to happen, from the moment we met, because I looked at you and I was fascinated and my kind ... well, we don't let go of things we find fascinating until we've figured them out. But I think I'm going to spend the rest of my life being surprised and amazed by you, however long or short that life may turn out to be. I've wanted to touch you from Day One and just because I got to for a while doesn't mean this ... this  _need_ wouldn't have eventually caught up with me. It might have taken a bit longer without your experiment but the ache was already there. It isn't your fault."

He paused and took a breath. "And if the Psy Council has something to say about this ... let them come. I'd be happy to tear them to pieces on your behalf."

Sherlock stared up at him in amazement and was glad he was already lying down.

"John ..."

"Yes?"

"I think I want to kiss you again."

*****

John stared down at the Psy looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes, and wondered what he had ever done to deserve this incredible man in his life.

"You ... what?"

"You heard me," Sherlock said calmly. "Now, are you going to come down here or do I need to do everything myself? I can pull you down if I want to."

John grinned at him. "So you can. But it's much more satisfying when you know I'm there of my own free will, isn't it?"

"Quite so," Sherlock conceded. "Now hurry up, I can't possibly build any more walls around my mind than I already have."

John gave in and bent down. "My turn this time," he murmured and kissed his Psy. Softly, gently, the way Sherlock deserved to be kissed.

He wanted to learn his lips, wanted to spend hours worshipping each arch of his cupids bow and lose days in the warm wetness of Sherlock's mouth. He wanted to taste him until he forgot all other tastes, until he could carry Sherlock on his tongue wherever he went. He never wanted to go anywhere again if Sherlock didn't come with him.

Sherlock made a soft noise in his throat and John pulled away.

"How's your head?"

"Well I'm not bleeding out of my nose or ears," Sherlock noted. His gaze turned very serious. "I think the effect you're having on me is wearing off, John."

John grinned. "Oh, you think that, do you?"

"Are you going to prove me wrong?" Sherlock asked, clearly trying not to sound delighted.

"Soon," John promised him. "But I think we've induced enough brain damage in you for one day. Perhaps tomorrow."

"Mmmh, your friends are coming to visit you tomorrow," Sherlock told him.

John blinked, completely thrown by that statement. "What? Who?"

"Emily and ... Tyler?"

"Tyson," John sighed. "Oh god, why?"

"Because I talked to them about you," Sherlock said. "They know. They smelled you on me. And I didn't know how else to get you help. So they're coming over tomorrow. And they might bring a gift basket or something equally ridiculous."

"A gift basket," John repeated tonelessly. "Do I want to know why? Oh, fuck it, of course I do. What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," Sherlock defended himself. "It was one of their cubs that climbed too high into a tree. I merely assisted in bringing him down safely."

"You levitated him," John concluded. "They let you do that?"

"Well, it was that or just let him fall to his death," Sherlock said calmly. "Obviously I never would have allowed that. It would reflect badly on my status if I, as a Gradient 9.9 TK, were unable to prevent someone from falling to their death."

"Of course. The other Psy would never let you live it down if you had allowed a changeling to die. Yes, I can absolutely see the public derision you would have been subjected to."

"Quite so."

John sighed and yawned. "Gosh, it's gone 2am. Come on, you need to sleep, rest that big brain of yours. I really don't want you to get brain damage."

"But what a way to go, John. Kissed to death. Like that fairytale."

"There is no fairytale where anyone is kissed to death," John said. "Do you mean Sleeping Beauty? She's kissed awake, not into a coma."

"A minor difference," Sherlock muttered, waving a dismissive hand.

John fondly shook his head. "You need to sleep. You're talking nonsense."

"Am not. And I would sleep but you keep talking, John. Lie down and sleep yourself."

"That's exactly what I was planning to do, thank you very much," John said and stood. "I'll see you tomorrow."

But a warm hand reached out and grasped his wrist. Another unsolicited touch. Sherlock had never before been the one to reach out to him like this. It sent a thrill down John's spine.

"Stay."

It wasn't a question and John didn't bother asking him if he was sure. He wouldn't have said so if he wasn't and they would merely continue arguing for another half hour. And John already knew he would end up giving in because he could not deny Sherlock anything. Not right now.

"All right. Just let me get changed, yeah?" He saw the light in Sherlock's eyes and shook his head. "Into my pyjamas, not ... the other thing."

"Oh." Sherlock actually looked disappointed.

John did change into his pyjamas and then slid onto the other half of Sherlock's large bed. There was a good thirty centimetres of distance between them. It would be fine.

*****

Sherlock woke at precisely 6:55am the next morning. For the first time in his entire life except for times when he had been too sick to move, he didn't immediately get up. For the very first time in his life it was because he simply didn't want to.

Perhaps, he mused, this was because he had never before woken up with someone else in his bed. With John in his bed. It sent a delicious shiver through him, feeling somehow strangely intimate for how chaste they were with each other. Well, he had rather thrown a wench in that last night, hadn't he? He had never intended to come home and just kiss John like that. He had never intended to kiss John at all. Well, that was a lie. He hadn't intended to do it until they were safe.

Tyson had said he should go home and look at John and he would know what to do. Amazing, these changelings. How could an ocelot possibly have known or even suspected that Sherlock would find himself doing this? Were there changelings capable of having foresight? No, that was a Psy thing, just like his TK. Perhaps changelings were simply better at this whole sentiment thing. It wasn't exactly difficult to surprise him with emotion now, was it?

He hardly knew what he was going to feel next, let alone how he was going to react to it. It was only logical to assume that someone infinitely more familiar with emotion would be in a better position to make an estimated guess.

Satisfied with this explanation, Sherlock decided to spend some more time focusing on the here and now.

He had never shared a bed with anyone. Ever. He couldn't remember even sleeping in the same room as another living being. But here he was now and John was sleeping peacefully next to him, as close as he could possibly get with the sheets between them. A warm arm was slung across Sherlock's middle, keeping him from escaping should he have wished to do so. He didn't.

He merely stared at John's arm and marvelled at it.

It was very nearly an embrace, this heavy weight slung across his torso. Perhaps it was the fact that John had done it unconsciously, in his sleep. Sherlock carefully reached up to his face and touched the skin around his nose and ears. When he pulled it away, his fingers were clean. No blood. He didn't have a headache either, which was always a reliable warning sign. For some reason, the dissonance hadn't caught on to this.

So long as he very carefully didn't attribute any emotion to this, he could perhaps cautiously enjoy it for a little while longer.

Instead of focusing on the warmth that sparked under his skin, the warm glow in his chest, he turned his attention to John's arm, studying the veins he could clearly make out under his still slightly tanned skin, the coarse blonde hair that did little to conceal the strong muscles.

These arms had been wrapped around him, had carried him in here yesterday after he had so gloriously ceded all control over his long-buried instincts.

It didn't matter that he had been unconscious at the time. Somehow, John had managed to lift him up and carry him all the way here from the kitchen. His John, so much stronger than his baggy jumpers and self-deprecating smile would make you think. So much more lethal. Sherlock didn't need to see his other form to know that, didn't even need to know what it was. He wanted to, oh yes, but it didn't make a difference in the big picture.

Still, he wondered.

He had been thinking about it on and off ever since John had moved in. The absolute silence of his footsteps, the way he could nap anywhere, anytime, and sit in the same spot for hours, patiently waiting on stake-outs while Sherlock was ready to bounce across the room within minutes. Cat, yes.

Not an Ocelot, he was sure of that now that he had seen the WhiteSpot pack in person.

No, John was something else. Something large and fierce that had thrived in the hot Afghan desert. A lion, perhaps.

Sherlock eyed John's blond-grey-gold hair and imagined it longer, a wild mane around his head. Yes. A roar that shook the world, teeth the length of one of Sherlock's hands... yes, he could see it all too well.

He smiled to himself. It didn't matter if John ever confirmed it or not. He was what he was and Sherlock ... loved him.

He closed his eyes, sank into his mind and tore the flimsy curtain of his Silence down.

 


	19. Chapter 18

"You're different," John noted in between two bites of toast.

"Am I?"

John gestured with his cup, barely preventing tea from sloshing over the rim. "I was touching you for what must have been hours and you don't even have a headache. You've been more relaxed than I've ever seen you. You're _smiling_."

That last word was said with awe.

"I am?" Sherlock asked. "I hadn't noticed." But now that John mentioned it, he had to concede that his mouth did feel slightly strained, moved into a position his facial muscles were distinctly unfamiliar with.

"What did you do?" John asked.

Sherlock felt his smile widen. "I shattered it."

"Shattered what?"

"Silence."

He let that hang there for a bit. John, his tea cup raised halfway to his face, sat frozen and simply stared at him. Finally, he carefully lowered his cup. "Sherlock..."

"You need to understand that it was never really there to begin with," Sherlock said. "The dissonance, yes. The pain triggers are still there. I just ... disabled them, so to speak. It won't last long and it's just a preliminary solution until I find something that will work permanently. I need them to be there, to act as a safeguard so my TK doesn't become volatile and endanger everyone and everything around me."

John nodded. "Yeah, you mentioned. I just wish there was a better way."

"I might find one, in time," Sherlock said. "We shall see."

"But are you saying... sorry, are you saying you never really were Silent?"

Sherlock shrugged. "For a while, I was. I think the conditioning held for about a year. After that, I started to pretend. It was easier, at times, and Mycroft had me reconditioned very carefully after I got off the drugs. Don't frown like that, it was the only thing he could have done. The reconditioning helped me overcome the addiction. So much of drug addiction is due to how a drug makes you feel. It's easier to resist when you don't feel anything at all."

John grudgingly conceded the point. "It's still a barbaric idea."

"And it didn't work," Sherlock reaffirmed. "I don't know why. It just never seemed to stick for long. Molly is in a similar position, except that she is infinitely worse at pretending."

"And it doesn't matter if she has broken Silence," John added. "Because they're turning a blind eye on her, aren't they?"

"Yes. She's too valuable and so far she has not shown any signs of wishing people to know she is not Silent. The Council doesn't see her as a threat."

It remained unsaid that Sherlock would not be extended the same courtesy.

"So what does that mean?" John asked. "For us?"

Sherlock lowered his gaze, unable to look John in the eye. "I don't know. All my arguments for stopping our experiment, for keeping our distance, are still valid. Even more so, actually. If the Council ever finds out, you will be killed and I will be rehabilitated. It will be done as a warning to others and they will make it as brutal as they possibly can."

"Couldn't Mycroft help?"

"They would turn on him if he tried," Sherlock said flatly. "He told me some time ago to hold on, to keep up the pretence for just a little bit longer. I ..." he hesitated, licking his lips, "I think he is working on something or at least aware of someone else working on something that might change the playing field."

John frowned. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Perhaps another assassination attempt on a Councillor. Perhaps the changelings are planning an uprising. But no matter what it is, I am almost certain the changeling packs around San Francisco will be involved somehow."

John nodded. "The DarkRiver and SnowDancer packs have formed the strongest alliance I have ever seen between two predatory changeling packs. And they have three or four Psy defectors among them, perhaps more that we don't know about."

Sherlock frowned, pensive, then stood and pulled John into the bathroom, where he proceeded to turn on the shower.

He lowered his voice. "John ... the packs have ways of communicating, don't they?"

"Usually. Why?" The precautions Sherlock had taken for this conversation had John shifting with unease. Sherlock caught him glancing at the frosted window. He wished he had thought to drag John in here for the entire conversation, not just this part. If anyone was listening in, they were already damned, though he supposed he could always claim to have been lying to John to keep him complacent or some other nonsense. In all honesty, he didn't think anyone _was_ listening but better safe than sorry.

Accordingly, he made sure his response was even quieter. "Could we contact them? Ask them to speak to their Psy? I want to know how they did it. I want to know how they managed to leave the Net and survive."

It was gratifying to see John's eyes light up at the thought. "I'll ask around," he promised.

The doorbell rang and they both turned towards the sound.

"Do you know," Sherlock said softly, "I think our contact method just came to us."

*****

"This is where you live now? Cor, John, that's not half bad," Tyson said as he stepped into their sitting room.

"I don't remember you being so messy," Emily noted, looking at the piles of haphazardly stacked paper everywhere.

John grinned. "Don't blame me, that's all Sherlock."

They both turned to take in Sherlock, who sat at the kitchen table in one of his usual suits, his hair its typical unruly mess as he swiped through his datapad. He glanced up at them for a moment. "Good morning."

Emily smiled warmly in his direction. "Good morning."

She turned to John and hugged him. "And hello to you, stranger. You look ... good."

He snorted and kissed her cheek. "No need to sound so surprised."

"Mmmh, and you smell like Psy."

"Are you saying I stink?" John demanded, trying not to laugh. "I can and will kick you out of this flat if I have to."

"Not at all," she said quickly, grinning. "It... works, somehow. Ty, I know you're making a face behind my back. Stop it."

As he hugged Tyson in greeting, John wondered what Sherlock made of this entire interaction. He didn't think Sherlock had ever seen him around his friends. With no little amount of guilt he realised that this was because he so rarely spent any time with them. Not since Sherlock had come into his life, at least.

"Are you here for a specific reason or did you just come to criticise my living arrangements?" John asked.

Emily rolled her eyes at him. "As if you don't know. I'm sure your Psy told you all about our little conversation yesterday."

"Only the important bits," Sherlock supplied helpfully without looking up from his datapad.

"Must have been the correct ones," Tyson drawled. "Because you both smell like you haven't been more than two feet apart for at least half a day. Or a night."

John refused to blush. He absolutely refused to.

"Perhaps you need to have your nose examined," he said, crossing his arms and eyeing Tyson in mock challenge. "I happen to know someone who'd be only too happy to help you out."

"Boys, please, no fighting," Emily interjected, sighing. "This is a friendly call, remember? Tyson, behave or I'm going to kick you out myself. John, don't let him rile you up just because you're ..." she waved a hand as if that somehow sufficed.

John decided to let that slide. "Fine. Would you like some tea? Coffee?"

"Tea would be lovely, thank you," Emily said and gave Tyson a pointed look.

"I'll take a cuppa if you're offering," he said.

"I think we've firmly established that he is indeed offering," Sherlock murmured, still not looking up from his datapad

"Go get comfortable," John suggested, gesturing at the sofa. "And don't mind him. Psy are far too literal-minded at times."

They sat and John went about making the tea. He ignored Sherlock, just as they had agreed in the handful of seconds they had had before Mrs Hudson opened the door and let in their visitors. Well, he pretended to ignore Sherlock but his senses were all attuned to him, picking up every breath and movement. Sherlock was doing a great job pretending to be completely engrossed in whatever it was he was doing. John thought he might be reading the news or playing a memory game.

"So, why are you here?" he asked, setting three steaming mugs down on the coffee table and dragging a chair around so he could face his friends.

"We just wanted to see how you were doing. Sherlock said you haven't been well."

John shrugged. "It's been a bit rough, yeah," he admitted. "I won't lie and claim otherwise."

Emily gave him a long look. "You really haven't shifted, have you?"

He looked away. "Can't risk it. The last time wasn't ... it wasn't good, Ems. I barely know what I did but the things I do remember are ..." He broke off and shook his head. "I can't risk that happening again."

"You were in a war zone, John," Tyson said quietly. "There's no war here. Well, so far. Give it a couple more murders and I'm sure everything will turn to absolute bloody carnage."

"It's not about where I am," John tried to explain. "It's who I am and the memories I carry around. If I shift, it might all come rushing back and then it won't matter if I'm not in Afghanistan anymore."

"But you can't be sure," Emily reminded him. "Have you talked to other changelings who had similar experiences?"

John shook his head. "I don't think I know any. Every member of my Army pack is dead."

Tyson and Emily exchanged glances. "Well, I think you don't give yourself enough credit," Emily said. "You're not some bloodthirsty murderous beast, John. You never have been."

"I can't be sure," he repeated. "And that is precisely why I won't risk it."

Tyson shrugged. "Your choice, mate. But I'll ask around among the packs and if I find anyone with a nice cave or underground bunker, I'm going to personally drag you there by the scruff of your neck if I have to."

"There won't be any need for that," Sherlock chimed in. "I will personally transport him there."

"I like your bloke," Tyson told John. "He may be Psy, but he knows what's what."

"A ringing endorsement if ever I heard one," Sherlock said.

Emily gaped at him. "Was that sarcasm?! I didn't know you knew how that works."

"It's a linguistic feat, not an emotional one," Sherlock informed her calmly. "And therefore it is well within my abilities."

"Ignore him," John advised. "He's always like that."

"Sarcastic?" Sherlock asked. "Almost never. You may have fallen for my reasoning but the Council wouldn't." He paused and considered. "On the plus side, they also likely wouldn't be able to detect sarcasm, so I think I'm in the clear for once."

"To get back to the topic," Emily said, "you need to shift, John. You can't look me in the eye and tell me you never want to shift again. Remember all the fun we used to have?"

"I do," he said wistfully. "And I do want to shift. I'm just not convinced it is safe for me to do so."

"Perhaps you should give it a try in a secure environment, then," Sherlock said. "We can frame it as an experiment."

"Well, you're definitely not going to be there when I shift," John said firmly. "I shudder to think of what would happen."

Sherlock merely arched an eyebrow at him. "We will see about that."

"You won't, that's the point," John told him with finality.

He demonstratively turned his back on his flatmate and rolled his eyes at his friends. "Sorry about ... well, him."

"You're the one who chose to live with a Psy," Tyson said. "Even if it's an exceptional one."

They shared a grin and John felt something within him relax a little. That was Tyson for you - he didn't like Psy and had never made a secret of that, but if someone earned his good opinion, he was more than willing to walk back all his previous misconceptions and opinions as far as that person was concerned. John didn't expect him to ever change his stance on the Psy as a whole.

"There was something I wanted to ask, actually, since you're both here," he said, glancing around uneasily.

"I haven't checked out here in a while," Sherlock said ambiguously and John nodded, remembering their earlier conversation in the bath. Best be careful then.

"I was hoping one of you could help me contact a specific pack. I have some questions for them regarding my ... shifting circumstances." He waggled his eyebrows and was relieved when Emily and Tyson both nodded, understanding the double meaning. "I got caught up on changeling gossip, so I know there's a pack over in the US where a member was latent up until recently. I was wondering if you could arrange an introduction?"

"We can try, of course," Emily said slowly. "It will have to get approval from their alpha but I can definitely reach out to their pack healer for you. We healers have our own communication channels."

John shot her a grateful look. "That would be fantastic. I'll talk to the alpha, too, if they insist. Just let me know where and when and I'll try to be there." He glanced at Sherlock. "Unless something unexpected comes up, like a new case or something, I'm usually quite flexible with my time."

Tyson cleared his throat. "The afternoon would be better if you want to talk to someone who is a) awake and b) not angry about it."

"Yeah, that makes sense. As I said, just reach out and see if you can arrange something and I'll be happy to talk to whomever has a bit of time on their hands."

His friends nodded.

Once they had left half an hour later, Sherlock moved over to the sofa, gave John a look and held up his datapad _'Well done'_ it said. _'How soon do you think I'll be able to get on that call?'_

Out loud, he asked: "So, how long do you think it's going to take them to set this up for you?"

"At least a day, maybe several," John said. "The packs are careful and the US-based pack will definitely want to make sure they're not talking to imposters. Going through their healers might be the best solution. They know each other."

Sherlock nodded. "Pack healers are different from normal doctors, are they not?"

"Yes. They have natural healing abilities and not all of them also have a medical degree, though most do. A pack healer can use their Alpha's strength and through him the entire pack's strength, to heal a wounded pack member. I've seen healers literally coax bullets out of open wounds. Their abilities aren't unlimited. If you are too grievously injured, you can still die. But your chances are a lot better with your pack healer than anyone else."

"What about you?" Sherlock asked.

"What about me? I'm not a healer. I got my medical degree the old-fashioned way."

"That's not what I meant," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "If you get injured, where do I take you? Who is your pack healer? It can't be Emily. I know she's a healer, you can just tell, but she's not your pack."

John shrugged. "My pack will find me if I'm hurt. Our alpha will know and be able to locate me and he'll bring our healer along if he can. It wasn't possible in Afghanistan, they were too far away to reach me in time, but within the UK? They'd come." He smiled. "It won't come to that, though. I have no intention of being dangerously injured anytime soon."

"You say that like you can schedule it," Sherlock mused. "That would be an extremely useful skill to have."

John threw a pillow at him. "Go back to your datapad and stop asking inane questions."

Sherlock grinned and did.

*****

Two hours later, their datapads pinged almost simultaneously with a new message alert.

Sherlock made a sound of protest as John reached for his, thus removing his arm from Sherlock's scrupulous examination. "It can wait, John."

"If the pack has already replied-"

"It's bloody early in the US, John. If your friends know anything at all about negotiations, they'll hopefully know not to ring the other party out of bed at arse o'clock. And even if they did, the actual conversation would have taken far longer than the time that has passed. It likely took them an hour to get back to their den, considering the traffic at this time of day, so they would have only had an hour to request a call. And that's assuming that such a large pack as our intended conversation partner doesn't already have a series of meetings and other engagements scheduled for the day, all of which take precedence over a UK pack calling for a chat."

John didn't reply.

Sherlock turned his head toward him. John was staring at his datapad "John? Was I wrong?"

"Hm? Oh, no. No, nothing from WhiteSpot," John murmured. "Just... could you check your datapad, please? I want to know what your message says."

There was something about his tone of voice that made Sherlock comply. His datapad floated into his outstretched hand and he quickly navigated to his messages.

One new message, received two minutes ago, from an anonymous sender. The subject line read _"Do I have your attention yet?"_

Sherlock opened the message. A series of pictures had been attached to it. Dead, empty eyes stared back at him, some of them leaking blood.

He knew those faces. He had stood at each of these victims' crime scenes recently.

The rest of the message comprised of a single line:

_"Have you enjoyed this little game of ours?"_

Sherlock stared down at the message, trying to compute.

Finally, he wordlessly turned his datapad to John. "What does yours say?"

John, equally wordlessly, handed him his datapad

Sherlock took in the entire message at a glance. The same subject line, anonymous sender, the same gruesome pictures.

And beneath that a single line:

_"Here, kitty."_

 


	20. Chapter 19

"What is that even supposed to mean?" Lestrade asked.

They were standing in his office at New Scotland Yard, bent over John and Sherlock's datapads as if they would yield more information if they simply stared at them long and hard enough.

Sherlock shrugged. "Clearly the killer is convinced he is playing some sort of game with me. I must have caught his attention somehow."

"But why drag John into this? That doesn't make sense."

"Perhaps it makes the game more entertaining to have multiple players," Sherlock suggested. "I wouldn't know. I have never played any game besides chess and logic puzzles." He thought it prudent not to mention the clapping game he and John had engaged in.

The changelings shared a long, loaded look.

"So what does that mean then?" Sally asked, jabbing her finger towards the messages. "Is the killer a changeling after all? As you said, Psy don't play games."

"Except for chess and other strategic exercises," Sherlock said. "Something that is deemed beneficial for our intellect and strategic thinking. They are not supposed to be fun or ... or for us to enjoy them."

"So it could be a Psy trying to mess with us?" John suggested.

"Quite likely," Sherlock agreed. "The killer can't be a changeling or a human. The brain damage the victims showed was too distinctive to have been caused by anything but a mental attack. Neither humans nor changelings have the necessary skill sets to invade someone else's mind. It must have been a Psy. And they must have broken Silence at least in some capacity. No truly Silent Psy would ever write a message like this. It wouldn't even occur to them - to us. The notion of games being something that is done for a person's enjoyment is entirely foreign to us. And Psy do not usually taunt their opponents like this. We keep our cards close to our chest until it is time to strike. We don't tell someone they have made an enemy of us until the very moment we destroy them."

"Cold," Sally noted.

"Efficient," John said and nodded. "An enemy can't defend themselves when they don't even know they're being attacked. It makes perfect sense to me. I don't like it, but it makes sense."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said primly.

"So this Psy here has broken Silence and is now killing people?" Lestrade surmised.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. This is the precise scenario Silence was created to prevent. Without it, this would be normal, not an exception."

He watched as the changelings all shivered.

"It'd be like we were before the peace treaties," John murmured.

There was a moment of silence as the changelings in the room remembered their history lessons about the Territorial Wars. They were still fresh in everyone's mind. Only the youngest packs had not lost members or friends to the vicious bloodshed that had spanned large parts of the world. The British Isles had only caught the edges of it as most of their packs had been (and still were) too small to be involved, but they still remembered.

Sherlock, too, had learned about the wars in school. His teachers had used them to illustrate that changelings were nothing but animals, beasts that sometimes wore human skin, slaves to their instincts and emotions and utterly incapable of rational thought.

Considering the Psy's own history of violence, bloodshed and criminal insanity, Sherlock had always considered these lessons somewhat narrow-minded and too full of stereotypes to be entirely correct.

And as far as the shifting was concerned, he knew that so far he had seen Lestrade in his fox form only about 12 percent of the time. Donovan's raven was a more common sight and even that was mostly due to the fact that a large part of her job were aerial patrols and messenger duties. No one could arrive faster at a crime scene than a bird changeling. Well, no one but a teleporter and these Psy were few and far between. If any existed right now, Sherlock was sure they had been snagged by the Council or the Arrow Squad long ago.

After another moment, Lestrade cleared his throat. "So. A criminally insane Psy who still retains enough intelligence to plan ahead and to get yours and John's private contact details to message you with taunts and barely-veiled threats," he said. "What do we think about that?"

"He needs to be stopped as quickly as possible," Sherlock said simply. "I will alert my brother of the issue, though I'm sure he will already know. He can take certain steps to try and speed up the process. It's bad press for all Psy if Silence is seen to be ineffective against the very thing it was created to prevent. With the current instability in the Net, such news might cause further damage. If even a small part of the Net breaks down, we might lose hundreds of thousands of people in one go."

That sent another shudder through the room. Several months ago, someone had tried to destabilise the PsyNet by taking out particular Psy, so-called Anchors, that were fixed points in the Net, keeping it functional. Without them, their area of the Net had collapsed and thousands of Psy had died as their link to the vital biofeedback was abruptly cut off.

It hadn't been an easy couple of years for the Psy and the Council was on high alert. Sherlock wondered what they would do if they found yet another Psy who had broken Silence - and in the wrong direction, no less.

"I have a question," Donovan said, turning to Sherlock. "These Psy that defected to changeling packs...."

"Yes?"

"Why haven't they gone on a murderous rampage?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know. I suppose they're not criminally insane."

Sally frowned. "But that's the entire point of Silence, isn't it? You train away all your emotions to stop yourselves from being driven insane by them. So if people break Silence, wouldn't they effectively take away that protection and increase the risk for themselves?"

"I don't know," he repeated. "That's why no one usually does it. The risk is too great. Do you think the Council would ever say anything that could diminish their absolute power over us? We only managed to survive and thrive thanks to Silence. The only reason Psy no longer have the highest percentage of serial killers amongst their populace is because of Silence. This is a proven fact. What you are suggesting is that there was another reason for so many of us turning violent. If that is the case, I never heard of it."

He hesitated. "All I know is that for people like me, Silence is a blessing and a gift."

She crossed her arms. "Are you saying you'd turn into a killer without it?"

"Not on purpose," Sherlock said. "But any strong emotion shakes my control over my telekinesis. Any larger emotional upset might cause a flare of my power and do untold damage. I cannot risk it and nor would many others."

It was too late for him, of course. He had already broken all the rules. But while he had in fact broken Silence just as he had told John, he still held on to part of it. The pain triggers left by the conditioning were still embedded in his mind, carefully set up to act as buffers. It was a delicate tightrope act, this balance between his control over his TK and the wave of sentiment that kept crashing over him whenever John so much as looked in his direction.

He shrugged. "Perhaps one day we will find a permanent way to keep both. Perhaps one day the Psy will relearn how to laugh and what friendship is and how to be kind without expecting a favour in return. But it won't happen until the Council undergoes a radical change and I cannot see that happening. They cling to their power like leeches to skin and Silence is their ultimate weapon."

He wasn't entirely certain but he thought the emotion on Donovan's face might be called 'pity'.

*****

"That was an interesting load of bullshit you sprouted back there," John noted as they sat in the cab back home. "Quite impressive."

Sherlock tilted his head. "Most of it was absolutely true. I merely glossed over the fact that it is already too late for me. They all suspect, anyway."

"They do?"

"Lestrade's nostrils have been flaring every time he got close to either of us for the entire duration of our presence in his office. How do I smell?"

John took a deep breath. "Like me," he said and sounded just a little bit wrecked by it.

Sherlock desperately wanted to reach out and touch him but refrained. "There you have it then. If I were truly Silent, this would be impossible. And yet here we are. And they can all smell it."

"They didn't say a word this time," John noted. "Why do you think that is?"

Sherlock glanced towards the driver but he was engrossed in the traffic. "I think they would very much like to believe that Psy aren't really as cold and unfeeling as we appear. We are, but there is no need to rob them of the wish. And I think they like you a great deal and are aware of the risk you face in associating with me in such a manner."

"It's not my risk alone," John reminded him. "You are in equal if not more danger. And don't claim they wouldn't care about that."

Sherlock remained silent for the rest of the ride home.

*****

Sherlock spent the rest of the day going over the case files again and re-watching the security footage in the helpless hope that something might jump out at him.

Nothing did, of course, and it was a relief to be able to feel frustrated with the lack of progress.

Finally, while John was busy making himself dinner in the kitchen, Sherlock decided he could no longer delay. He reached out with his mind until he found the bright, icy star of his brother's consciousness in the PsyNet. He offered a mental knock and wasn't at all surprised when Mycroft took him straight into an intensely private and well-guarded mental space where they might talk without fear of being overheard.

"What is it?"

No greeting, no _'How are you?'_ \- Sherlock hadn't realised how used he had gotten to these little social niceties humans and changelings engaged in all the time.

"We are dealing with a Psy serial killer," he told his brother. No point to beating around the bush. "He has killed various changelings and Psy and has now taken to taunting me and John in private messages."

That was a sure-fire way of getting Mycroft's attention. "Explain."

Sherlock laid out the messages for him, sending mental snapshots of them along for Mycroft to peruse them in context.

"Psy do not play games for enjoyment," Mycroft noted. "Yet this individual is deranged enough to believe that you do."

Sherlock remained silent, waiting for this brother to continue his train of thought.

"No, you are quite correct. A Silent Psy would not have thought to phrase his message this way. What do you think of the message Dr. Watson received?"

"I believe it to be some form of taunt," Sherlock said. "It appears to be a phrase commonly used by humans and changelings when trying to call a domestic cat towards them. It is no secret that John is some form of cat changeling. I had him deduced within moments of our first meeting."

"Yet you do not know which precise shape he takes," Mycroft said.

"Nor do I wish to know," Sherlock told him, not entirely truthfully. "It has no impact on my work or our living arrangement. He refuses to shift, so it is beside the point. If he wishes to tell me, he will do so in his own time."

"As you wish," Mycroft said, which only confirmed Sherlock's suspicion that his brother knew. He had likely cheated and looked up John's military records, where such information would of course be noted down.

"Comparing him to a domestic cat is insulting and suggests the killer thinks of him as little more than a semi-sentient pet," Sherlock said, barely keeping his simmering rage contained. The knowledge had been nagging at him all day, an endless cycle of fury, frustration and aimless considerations of whether or not this misconception could somehow be used to their advantage.

"I shall look into the matter," Mycroft said and that was that.

"Thank you," Sherlock told him.

He got ready to leave but his brother stopped him. "You burn brighter."

"Pardon me?"

"Your mind," Mycroft said. "It burns brighter in the Net. I first noticed the change three weeks ago and it dulled again for a time but now it burns even brighter than before. Have you considered seeing a medic?"

"I have an in-house medic," Sherlock reminded him.

"A changeling cannot see your mind in the PsyNet and examine you in context," Mycroft said, as if that was somehow news to Sherlock. "If you do notice a change in your physical or mental well-being, do not hesitate to seek out an expert. I'm sure we will be able to find someone who can be relied upon to be discrete."

Sherlock doubted it but merely nodded. "Of course. I shall monitor the situation."

He would put up another layer of shields, or perhaps several. If his mind blazed brighter in the PsyNet, he might attract all the wrong kinds of attention. He really didn't want anyone to be curious enough to begin trying to dismantle his shields. It would be ever so tedious having to rebuild them all over again.

*****

"Back amongst the living?" John asked as Sherlock blinked himself back into the reality of 221b Baker Street. "You were gone for quite some time."

He didn't sound worried at all and his simple observation made something flutter in Sherlock's chest. To be so well-known, so well understood by another being ... he had not thought it possible. He had not thought his life lacking in anything until John showed up and it became clear that it had been him.

Now that he was here, Sherlock could not imagine life without John again. It sent another shiver down his spine and this one he was intimately familiar with - fear. Survival instincts were still present in the Psy. Fear was considered healthy so long as it pertained to a Psy's survival. He wondered why he experienced it now and turned the thought over in his head to examine it from all angles.

If John died, this would have no impact on Sherlock's life. He would still be alive, his heart would still beat, neurons would still fire in his brain, he would still draw breath.

Yet the very thought of John dying caused him to shudder, his entire being shying away from the thought as if it was a searing flame.

He tried the thought again.

If John died, this would have no impact on Sherlock's life.

He frowned. That didn't seem correct. It was true in the strictest biological sense of cause and effect but Sherlock suspected it would be much like the impact the death of a bee would have on a flower. A sudden loss of an important part of his ecosystem, a gradual decline with far-reaching consequences, culminating in Sherlock's untimely death at the hands of a criminal or his own unbearable boredom.

He tried to imagine John being gone, tried to erase his presence from the flat and watched the mental picture fall apart immediately.

Breathing was surprisingly difficult around the sudden lump in his throat.

"John?" he croaked. " _John_."

John was by his side in an instant. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said, leaning forward and pressing his face into John's stomach. "I just needed you."

There was a moment's pause and then he felt one of John's hands on his head, fingers carefully carding through his hair. "I'm right here."

Sherlock nodded and breathed in, trying to recall if anything had ever felt as good and right as being with John. He couldn't come up with a single thing.

It was well worth the headache he could feel forming in the back of his skull as he allowed himself to enjoy all the things Psy had been taught to shun - another person's warmth and touch, safety and the unbearably fantastic feeling of not being alone.

Whatever happened next, he thought, this was worth it.


	21. Chapter 20

There was another murder the very next day.

Sherlock wasn't surprised to find himself standing above another dead changeling and he knew that neither was John.

"Bull," John said. "Notoriously hard-headed and I don't mean that in just the figurative sense."

Sherlock nodded. "It must have taken considerable effort to break through his shields."

John, still crouched beside the body, shook his head. "He didn't manage."

That gave Sherlock pause. "What?"

"His brain is where it's supposed to be," John said. "With the other changelings, I was able to smell the ruptured brain matter on them, if that makes sense. With this one, though? Nothing. We need Molly to back me up here but I'm sure I'm right."

Sherlock frowned. "He bled from his eyes, ears, nose and mouth, just like the others. So why is this one different?"

"You want my best guess?" John asked.

"I would prefer facts but I'll take what I can get."

John rolled his eyes at him. "I think the drugs killed him. Whatever it is that our killer gives his changeling victims. He must smuggle it into their food somehow, we already established that. I think he knew that bulls are known to be tougher to break, so he went with a higher dosage. He used too much."

Sherlock considered this theory. "Yes. Yes, that makes perfect sense. We'll get Molly to confirm but this killer obviously does his research. Clearly he doesn't understand changeling physicality all that well, though, so he got the dose wrong."

"He probably thought their mental and physical resilience were both much greater than with other changelings," John mused. "And bulls are tough, don't get me wrong. They could probably tear down buildings with their bare hands if they wanted. But any system can only take so much of a specific agent and sheer muscle power doesn't necessarily translate to greater resilience against drugs."

"Well, he gave us a couple of days to breathe and consider our next move," Sherlock noted. "And in the meantime, he considered his. This really is a game to him."

"You're certain the killer is male?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Most of his victims are male but not all of them. Women tend to stick to one victim profile and follow it. Then there is Psy physiology to think of. Psy choose potential sperm or egg donors very carefully based on various factors. Physical beauty is one of them as it gives people an advantage over their peers. It's why the Psy are proportionally more attractive in the eyes of humans and changelings, though we lose the advantage due to our general demeanour and lack of emotion."

"How does this relate to our killer being male?" Lestrade asked. He had stood beside them in silence as they examined the body and discussed their findings but clearly couldn't let this one slide without comment.

Sherlock blinked. "Isn't it obvious? Changelings are far more sex-driven than the other species. Despite all the advances society has made in terms of euquality and inherent sexism, a female Psy would have captured their attention, would have been noticed. Any single individual with an inclination towards women would have paid attention to her. Not exactly useful when trying to spike someone's food, is it? A male Psy on the other hand?" He gestured around them. "Look around. We're in the City. Most of the people working here are Psy in the finance sector. A male killer would just be another Psy in a suit, blending into the crowd easily and being ignored by the changelings in the area."

He considered this for another second. "So he can't be exceptionally good-looking. He'd likely be slightly above average, just another face in the crowd, no one to draw attention to himself. The perfect chameleon."

"Ok, I'm with you so far," Lestrade said, scribbling onto his notepad. "Does that help us?"

"Not really," Sherlock said. "We'll have to wait and see what Molly has to say about the body. If John is right, there is a chance our killer will either have wiped himself out and be too tired for another attempt for at least a day or two, or ..."

"Or?" Lestrade prompted.

"Or he will be frustrated by his failure and go looking for his next victim immediately."

John stood and crossed his arms. "Well, I suppose we'll find out which it is soon enough."

*****

After a quick visit to the morgue, where Molly confirmed John's theory about the bull changeling's cause of death, they returned to the flat.

Sherlock went over his notes again to keep himself occupied while John tried to contact Emily and find out if she had made any headway in arranging the call he had requested.

If he was aware that Sherlock was watching him out of the corner of his eye, he didn't let on, so Sherlock kept an eye on him even as he battled with himself.

He had another theory, a third option the killer might choose to pursue. His first instinct was to tell John all about it, which was already a small wonder in and of itself. He had never before felt the inclination to talk to anyone about this thoughts and theories. Yet only a couple of weeks with John had formed it into a habit and the many months that had passed since then had only solidified it as the right thing to do.

But he held back. He had to, this time, because he knew John wouldn't like his theory and he knew John would definitely overreact if Sherlock so much as mentioned it.

Fuelled by frustration and a certain lack of progress - surely the Yarders had realised by now that there seemed to be no evolution to the killer's methods -, he might try to take his 'game' to the next level. The most logical way to do this would be to contact Sherlock again, his chosen other player.

Sherlock wasn't certain if John would receive a message as well - would the Psy consider him a worthy opponent? Comparing John to a domestic cat had been an obvious insult, if not to say a slur, and Sherlock couldn't quite imagine that anyone would possibly go from that to considering the changeling a legitimate threat. Which was a dangerous error, of course, and one Sherlock was determined not to make himself. Underestimating John had never once led to the expected result of being proven right. On the contrary. Every time Sherlock had thought he knew what John was going to do or what he was capable of, the man had surprised him.

It seemed impossible that others could not see how exceptional John was, how he was the linchpin that allowed Sherlock to pull apart the entire universe and extract its secrets or at least feel like he could if he wanted to. That anyone might look at John and see an ordinary being, perhaps even a beast incapable of rational thought, was ludicrous.

John sighed and put his datapad down, instantly drawing Sherlock's attention.

"Any luck?"

"Not yet. She says she reached out but hasn't heard back yet. Apparently the other healer is taking her kids to a football match today so she won't see the message for a while."

Sherlock nodded. "It won't make a difference, John. We're not in a desperate hurry here."

"Yes, I know." Sighing, John buried his face in his hands for a moment. "I just want all of this to be over. I want this killer to be caught and I want a solution for ... all this."

"That is rather a lot to ask," Sherlock murmured. "I'm not sure we have earned it. Well, you have, without doubt. I'm not so sure about myself."

"You have suffered more than I have," John argued.

"That might be debatable," Sherlock told him. "For the longest time, I did not know I was suffering."

It was getting easier to admit to it now, though - to admit that the Silence Protocol had been slowly eating him up from the inside out, that it had begun to erode who he was. And then John had shown up in his life, a beacon of life and light, and Sherlock had finally found himself again, the person he knew he had always been supposed to be.

Still, his point stood.

"Let the healer and her children enjoy the game. A couple of hours won't change anything for us."

He was wrong.

*****

They went out for dinner that evening, both hoping for a distraction.

Without ever quite agreeing on it, they ended up back at Angelo's restaurant. They hadn't been in a while and the huge water buffalo changeling gave Sherlock such a hearty clap on the back, he stumbled and all but fell into his seat.

John merely grinned. "Good to see you, too, Angelo. Try not to kill Sherlock, eh? You know how these Psy are. No physical strength to speak of. They've got it all up there." He tapped his head with his index finger and Angelo laughed.

"Right you are, John. Your usual, then?"

"Please."

Once they were ensconced at their usual table by the window, Sherlock dared to glance into the small mirror on the wall and found himself startled by the sight that greeted him. He and John, sitting as close as the table would allow without them being right next to each other. The light in John's eyes and the smile on his face. Even Sherlock's own face appeared softer somehow, more lively than he could ever remember being.

For a moment, he felt the urge to hide, to wipe every trace of emotion off his face.

But not tonight, he decided. They could have this dinner together and be just another couple, just two men out for dinner. Nothing more, nothing less.

Soho, with its many colours, theatres and tourist attractions, was a human and changeling area. There were not many Psy around and those that were would not recognise him as one of their own - not with the way he looked right now.

Sherlock looked away from the mirror, allowed himself to relax and even returned John's smile, rather tentatively.

John beamed at him. "God, I'll never get tired of the sight of this," he murmured.

"Of what?"

"You, smiling. It's the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

Sherlock didn't dare protest - the look on John's face and his tone of voice both suggested that he was entirely serious. And who knew - perhaps he was right. Sherlock didn't know what his smile looked like - he had barely learned how a real smile worked at all - so if John thought it was beautiful, who was he to argue? He would not deny John this enjoyment.

"One day," he said instead, "we will always get to be like this. I don't care how long it takes or if I will have to take down the Council myself to achieve it."

He couldn't help himself - he reached out and grasped John's hand, marvelling at the feeling of soft warm skin beneath his fingertips as he brushed his thumb over the back of John's hand.

John made a soft noise in his throat at that, blinking rapidly. "Yes. Let's do that. Whatever it takes. I'll be right there with you. No matter what."

"No matter what," Sherlock echoed.

Their food arrived then and they fell silent for a while, too busy eating to spend much time talking. Sherlock watched John dig into his Rigatoni al Forno and decided this was another thing he couldn't wait to have - proper food with an actual taste, not the bland Psy meals he knew Angelo only kept on retainer in case he and John showed up. He didn't know what Angelo and his various chefs did with them but he strongly suspected they at least added some sort of herb or another mild spice to it while arranging the bland dish into something that was barely distinguishable from the normal meals served here. It was certainly the most delicious version of a Psy nutrition meal he had ever enjoyed.

John had a glass of wine to go with his pasta. Sherlock stuck to water. This was not going to change. Psy physiology and their unique minds meant they had very interesting reactions to alcohol and therefore didn't drink any if it could be avoided at all. Sherlock didn't think it was a big loss. There were alcohol-free drinks that tasted similarly, were a lot cheaper and didn't cause unwelcome side effects such as hangovers, memory loss and embarrassing behaviour, to name only the top three he had heard of or personally observed in others. It did not sound desirable at all to him.

Once their first hunger was sated, their conversation resumed and they talked about nothing and everything. They touched on old cases and people they had met on some of their more ridiculous adventures and what they might do with themselves once the case was wrapped up. That was as much as they were both willing to discuss regarding the serial murders - the time after they were stopped for good.

Out in public, even in Angelo's restaurant, they did not dare talk about the phone call they were still waiting to get confirmation on. Instead, they shared gossip about the happenings in their respective societies. John had to rely on what his friends told him while Sherlock was forced to filter information from the PsyNet, where a lot of it was likely to be heavily edited out of fear of the Council and the PsyNet's silent assassins, the Arrows.

That was one group Sherlock was not worried about. He knew whom the Arrows had sworn their allegiance to. From them at least they had nothing to fear.

Finally, the evening wound down. Their bellies were full and their plates empty, John was swirling the last dregs of wine around in his glass in that way he always did when he merely wanted something to occupy his hand and had no intention of actually drinking the last sip.

Sherlock knew the habit well enough by now and it made him smile again.

"Time to go?" he suggested softly.

John nodded. "Yeah, let's."

They stood and Sherlock waved away all of Angelo's protests, sneaking his card past the man in order to pay. He had perfected the move months ago.

Within minutes, they found themselves standing outside on the street, the cool night air enveloping them with its typical London smell of too many people, someone's joint and cheap Chinese take-away.

Sherlock breathed it in deeply, wondering how much more John was able to smell. Perhaps he would ask him some other day. Not tonight, though.

"Got any plans for the rest of the evening?" John asked as they set out back towards their flat, silently agreeing that a walk in the fresh air would do them good.

Sherlock shrugged. "Not really." He gave John a mischievous look. "There is a riveting experiment I put on the back-burner a couple of days ago and would like to continue. I might need your assistance though."

John grinned. "Well, how could I say no to an offer li-"

And then everything went black.

 


	22. Chapter 21

John came to in a dirty, narrow alley, barely more than a foot passage between two buildings.

His head hurt and he felt mildly dizzy. Dark spots danced before his eyes as he sat up with a groan.

There was a skip next to him, blocking most of the light that came from the street lamp just around the corner.

John blinked and tried to focus.

_'Wrong!'_ His mind screamed at him.  _'Wrong wrong wrong!'_

"Sherlock?" he asked.

There was no reply.

John sighed. No way around it, he needed to do it at least partially. Carefully keeping hold of his control, he allowed his cat closer to the surface, let it taste the air and allowed his eyes to shift from human to cat.

Immediately, the dingy passage became much brighter.

There was no trace of Sherlock. John allowed himself half a moment of resignation before the panic set in.

Where was he? What the hell had happened?

They had left Angelo's and apparently barely made it down the street before someone had attacked them. John couldn't recall hearing footsteps but he probably wouldn't have paid them any heed if he had heard them. This was London. There was always someone around. And how could he pay attention to his surroundings when Sherlock was looking at him with something that could only be described as barely concealed hunger on his face?

John had been too breathless with joy to pay attention to anything else and now they were both paying the price for his inattention.

He struggled to his feet and shook his head to get some of the confusion to fade. Changelings healed quickly, if he had suffered a concussion, it would be gone before he knew it.

He carefully looked around the alley, searching for clues. But he wasn't Sherlock, he couldn't deduce anything. All he could do was check for blood. It would have to do for now.

John breathed in carefully.

The varied and colourful contents of the skip, trash on the ground, piss and someone's spilled beer and - John grimaced - a used condom further down the alley. No blood, though. That was good.

That meant that whoever had taken Sherlock had taken him without force or with as little force as possible. They must have been quick about it, too, because if they didn't manage to knock him out from the get go, they would end up with their brains plastered to the next wall. Attacking a TK-Psy was not the smartest move a person could make and John for his part wouldn't want to be in their shoes when it happened.

But all of that was unimportant now. Sherlock wasn't there. Someone had managed to surprise him, someone had managed to knock them both out and take Sherlock with them.

John tried to think through his panic, through the roaring in his head as his cat, already several steps ahead of him in terms of planning his next move, yearned to tear the heads off anyone involved in this.

But he would have to find them first.

*****

Sherlock came to tied to a chair in a large room, right underneath a single light bulb that illuminated nothing but the three metre radius around him.

He sent his TK outward, gauging the size of the room. It was an imprecise science at the best of times, not nearly as useful as the echolocation some of the mysterious water changelings possessed. He didn't need to know every nook and cranny of the place, however. Just an idea of the space around him would already help. Luckily, he only needed the blunt instrument that was his TK to determine the approximate area he had at his disposal.

A large warehouse, if he had to guess. Perhaps an airplane hangar. How utterly pedestrian.

He couldn't make out any sounds but that didn't have to mean anything. Whoever had taken him -  _'Three guesses, Sherlock, and the first two don't count'_ \- might be in the room with him now and simply remain silent. His hearing wasn't even close to John's, he couldn't make out a person breathing or shifting their weight in this cavern.

There was nothing for it but to wait. Sherlock had never been very good at waiting.

"I'm awake now," he announced calmly. "In case you want to come out and talk."

He clicked the 'k' at the end with his tongue, let the sound travel through the darkness.

"I've never been much of a talker," a man's voice drawled from the shadows. There was an odd echo to it - it could have come from anywhere within the place and when Sherlock reached out with his mind to find the other Psy's mental plane, he came up empty. "But for you I might make an exception."

"I assumed you would," Sherlock said, head held high. "Seeing as you had me snatched from the street and brought here rather than attempting to kill me where I stood."

"Perhaps I didn't want your pet to interfere," the man suggested.

Sherlock tilted his head. "Oh, come now. There must have been at least five different ways to take John out of the picture without moving me to an entirely different location."

He tried to hide his panic. John wasn't here. Of course not. But if the point had been to get Sherlock away from him specifically rather than from people in general, then John was still alive. And, knowing him, it would only be a matter of time before he woke and went looking for Sherlock. Unless he was being held at a different location, of course. But Sherlock didn't think so. Surely the game would be more appealing, more enjoyable, if tinged with the knowledge that John was somewhere out there, looking for Sherlock.

He would believe that for as long as he could, would hold on to that thought. John was alive. He had to be.

Sherlock was ridiculously certain that he would know if it were otherwise.

Well then ... it was time for his own game, then. He didn't care what the Psy in the darkness thought it was called but Sherlock called it  _'Playing for time'_ and he had become very good at it over the course of his career.

"Well?" he demanded. "Am I going to meet the man who has kept me so delightfully entertained in recent weeks? I came all this way, after all. The least you can do is tell me your name."

Shuffling footsteps and then there was movement in the shadows. A slim man, slightly shorter than Sherlock himself, with short dark hair and eyes so black they seemed like holes in the universe.

Sherlock had never seen such eyes but he thought that somewhere in their depths there might be a flicker of something, like a light.

They were the strangest cardinal eyes he had ever seen.

The man grinned, eyeing him hungrily, like a dog would look at a slab of meat.

"Jim Moriarty," he drawled. "Hiiiii."

And a spear of white-hot pain seared its way into Sherlock's mind.

*****

John shoved his phone back into his pocket, mentally ticking off task one from his list of things to take care of:

1\. Alert the Yard to get backup.

2\. Find Sherlock.

3\. Kill whoever had taken him.

It was a simple list, the best he could come up with while his cat roared in his head and clawed at his skin.

He knew there was no holding it back. There never had been but the illusion had been enough to see him through until now, until he really needed it. Until there was something to keep him focused, to keep him too busy to waste time being terrified of himself.

He carefully stepped out of his shoes, took off his trousers and jacket, pulled his jumper over his head and nodded to himself. The t-shirt, boxers and socks were cheap and easily replaceable. It wouldn't matter if they disintegrated. And at this time of night, his appearance wouldn't draw attention. This was Soho, after all. He methodically bundled up his clothes and phone and carried them down the almost deserted street to Angelo's restaurant.

The man didn't bat an eye when John walked in half-naked and shoved the bundle of clothes into his arms. "Someone has taken Sherlock," he said. "Keep an eye on these for me, will you?"

"You've got it, John."

He nodded, turned on his heel and ran out the door. He barely made it into the next dark corner, hunkering down and letting the pleasure-pain of the shift wash over him.

It was so much more intense than he remembered, after all this time. But perhaps it always had been this way.

Raw strength flooded him as his entire body grew. A changeling's animal form was naturally larger than the real animal and the changeling remained fully in control throughout, closer to their instincts but always with a human half doing most of the thinking until it was time to let instinct take over. This was what he had feared he would be unable to do.

The fear proved unfounded and he felt a smug satisfaction as if his cat were saying  _'See? I can do this.'_

He took a moment to orient himself, to regain his balance and get used to being on four legs again. The joy of it, shared by his human and animal half in equal measure, was overwhelming.

Finally, for the first time in over a year, John felt like himself again.

No, he felt like more, more himself than he had ever been before in his life because a year ago, he had not had Sherlock.

And the moment he allowed himself to think that, to acknowledge what had been happening right under his nose the entire time, the universe seemed to tighten and unravel all at once.

It barely took a second for the mating bond to snap into place.

It was an anchor and a lifeline, a pulsing thing of love and rage and fear. And it pulled him straight to Sherlock.

 


	23. Chapter 22

The pain took up the entire world. It pulsed through his head, overwhelming synapses and nerve bundles, blinding him to anything else.

That, at least, was probably what Moriarty had intended.

For one short moment, he had succeeded, too, had pierced through Sherlock's mental shields like a drill through wood. But then Sherlock's emergency shields had snapped into place as the attack on his mind activated all the careful traps he had laid.

Layer upon layer of shields, mental viruses it had taken him years to create, a labyrinth of ever-shifting individual shields that left no clear way forward.

The instant relief as his mind was wholly his own again was one of the best things he had ever felt and it got improved upon by the look of anger on Moriarty's face.

Sherlock retaliated with his TK, reaching out to slam his assailant against the nearest wall.

But before he could get a grasp on him, the attack on his mind resumed and it took all his available energy to keep his shields up and the traps active. Undoubtedly Moriarty had planned this. He should have killed him right away, should have let his curiosity take a back-seat just once in order to rid the world of this monster.

It was too late for that now. He barely managed to let the force of his TK form an invisible bubble around him, a deterrent for any kind of physical attack on his person. It wouldn't be the first time a bullet stopped dead in the air around him.

"Why do any of this?" he managed to ask. "The changelings I get - but why the Psy?"

The man shrugged. "I didn't like them."

Sherlock tilted his head a little. "You're Psy. You're not supposed to like anyone."

"Perhaps I should just kill everyone, then," Moriarty suggested. "Now there would be a task. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes. I shall consider this in more detail once I'm done with you."

"But when you've killed me, who will play the game with you?" Sherlock asked.

He felt the pressure on his mind lessen a fraction as Moriarty got drawn into the conversation.

"Those can't have been your first kills," Sherlock added. "How long did you get away with murder? A couple of years? A decade? You're a clever one, I'm sure you could have kept going for much longer without being detected." The deductions flowed freely now and he let them. "You must have been so bored. So clever and no one there to see your brilliance, no one to admire the feats you accomplished. I sympathise entirely."

And he did, at least to a point. Who knew what would have become of him if he had not met John. John, who had seen his brilliance and called him amazing. Sherlock was reasonably sure he wouldn't have become a serial killer but something in him would have withered and died all the same.

"You think I was bored?" Moriarty asked.

Sherlock levelled him with a look. "Weren't you?"

"Yeah, ok, I was." He shrugged and spread his arms. "And now look at me. I've got you right where I wanted you - the great Sherlock Holmes, at my mercy." He nodded towards him. "You can stop the pretence, by the way. Those were never meant to hold you for long."

Sherlock let the handcuffs that had tied his arms to the back of the chair fall to the floor. "I would have been disappointed if they had been," he said and rearranged himself in his chair until he was sitting comfortably, his arms crossed loosely in front of him. "Well? You wanted my attention. Now what?"

Another spear of pain tried to drill into his head and Sherlock deflected it easily. Clearly Moriarty wasn't really interested in breaking into his mind at this precise moment.

"That's an interesting technique you've got there," Sherlock noted. "I can see how effective it would be against changeling minds. They're notoriously difficult to crack."

Moriarty shrugged. "I wanted to keep in practice."

"Liar," Sherlock drawled. "You wanted to know if you could do it, how long it would take, if it would work on anyone. And when you realised how difficult it was, you got worried your powers were failing you. So you tried it on some Psy and then came up with the delightful method of weakening the changelings first. We never did find those first victims but there are millions of hiding places in this city."

Moriarty looked furious, which was an entirely unfamiliar sentiment to see on a Psy. Clearly this one was well beyond the reach of Silence. He had probably laughed at the idea that basic conditioning could ever fully contain him.

This, Sherlock thought, was the fatal flaw of the Silence Protocol - it had been introduced to stop the Psychopaths among them from turning into cold-blooded killers. But without any emotional ties to hold them back, the true psychopaths of their race had flourished instead. And now one of them was right here, watching Sherlock with predatory interest.

"Why me?" Sherlock asked. "What's so special about me in particular?"

"Everything," Moriarty said. "Everything about you. 9.9 on the gradient, brother of a Councillor, and yet here you are, working with the police, with changelings, to hunt killers. And you didn't stop there. You moved in with a changeling, let some ordinary beast share your presence, wasted your intellect on its amusement."

Sherlock hid his wince at the derogatory way the man spoke about John. If his entire power wasn't needed to keep his shields stable, he would leave nothing but a bloody smear of James Moriarty. Perhaps if the opportunity presented itself...

Another stab of pain put paid to that thought and he refocused on his defences and their conversation.

"You seem to take a large interest in my life," he noted.

"You made it so very easy to take an interest," the other Psy said, shrugging. "You are Psy, you could be part of the elite - and yet you chose this life, invented your own job when none suited your interests. You even tricked them into letting you practice music. I have never met anyone else who was so much like me."

_'I am nothing like you'_ Sherlock thought, disgusted by the very idea.

Out loud he said: "I fail to see the similarities. Perhaps you should tell me more about yourself and we will see if I agree with your assessment."

Keep him talking. That was the key. Keep Moriarty talking and thinking and distracted from blowing out Sherlock's brains or wondering about John. How long had he been gone? How long had it taken John to recover from the attack and go looking for him? Not too much time could have passed yet - he would have to distract Moriarty further, somehow, anyhow. This would be the first step. He was sure he could find plenty more.

*****

London at night was more input than John remembered. He shuddered to think how changelings had fared even 50 years ago, before the last fuel-driven cars had been replaced by something sustainable that wouldn't poison the very air they breathed.

He knew he was drawing attention - there were already screams and gasps in his wake. In Soho people had been amazed but John had left Soho behind quite some time ago and he was still running, letting the mating bond around his heart tug him in the right direction. It was there, strong and sure, and that was all he needed to know that Sherlock was still alive.

Pain kept pulsing along the bond, however, the echo of a terrible stabbing sensation in his head that could only mean that Sherlock was fighting off a vicious attack on his own mind. John didn't need to guess who was responsible for that.

He accelerated his pace, ignoring the people who lunged out of his way, the gaping tourists and the click and flash of too many cameras.

It didn't matter. Let them see him in all his glory. His cat enjoyed the attention, would have preened in the general astonishment and awe if he wasn't in such single-minded pursuit of the only thing that mattered in the entire world. The one thing that  _was_ the world.

His paws ate up the rough London asphalt and tiled side walks in large strides and the night air whipped through his fur, cool and refreshing - the perfect balm for the strain he put on his lungs. He could run like this for hours, he knew. He just hoped he wouldn't have to.

_'Hold on, Sherlock'_ he thought, sending all his love and hope and fury along the mating bond.  _'I'm coming.'_

*****

As it turned out, Moriarty had a rather long list of perceived similarities between himself and Sherlock.

For his part, Sherlock thought they rather paled in light of the one large difference between them: He had never gone on a wild killing spree out of sheer boredom and a lack of respect for other people's lives.

"Why not kill some humans?" he asked to keep Moriarty talking. "Cover all three races?"

"Because humans are boring!" the Psy shouted. An unexpected reaction and Sherlock just barely managed to stop himself from flinching away. "Changelings at least present a challenge with their natural shields. But you ..." He stared at Sherlock with evil delight. "You are the true challenge. Who would have thought you would have that many shields? I've seen Councillors with less."

Sherlock mentally marked off at least two suspicious Councillor deaths as solved.

"I dislike having other people in my head," he simply said. "You know about my brother - I find it interesting that my shields came as a surprise to you in spite of that."

More bullshit, of course. His shields had always been good but that was it - good. They had never been anything exceptional until John had appeared in his life and Sherlock had found himself suddenly paranoid, terrified of what would happen to both him and John if anyone were to discover how quickly he had become attached.

"You seemed to keep well away from him for so long, I did not consider it to be an issue. Clearly I miscalculated." Moriarty seemed slightly annoyed with himself, which Sherlock liked. Anything that threw him off-guard was good and should be pursued further.

"He's a cardinal telepath," Sherlock pointed out. "There is no escaping someone like him. There is no such thing as 'far enough', no distance that could ever be sufficient."

"And yet you haven't reached out to him," Moriarty said, looking around. "I can't seem to see him anywhere."

Sherlock bit back a snort. Contacting Mycroft had been the first thing he had done, even before he had let on that he was awake. There simply wasn't any way to get to him - even Mycroft could not locate someone on the physical pane, not even if their mind was spread open for him to riffle through, which Sherlock's wasn't.

So they would have to wait for any sort of clue about Sherlock's whereabouts. Until then, he would keep the game going. He strongly suspected that Mycroft was keeping an eye on John. If John had a way of tracing his scent, surely he would be on his way already.

"I'm tired of this talk," Moriarty announced. "I want to play some more. You have such interesting shields, Sherlock. I can't wait to shatter them."

He barely got a second to brace himself, to pour all his remaining power into his mental shields, before Moriarty attacked again.

This time, he was done playing. This time, he was going to destroy them, break into Sherlock's mind and do whatever he wished in there. He could make him forget his own name or, worse, John's. He could make him forget all about John. He could twist John's memory and turn it into a nightmare, could turn every good memory Sherlock had into a walking nightmare. And he could take everything Sherlock knew and use it for his own purposes.

It was more than enough motivation to keep fighting him, even as his strength dwindled, even as the pressure in his head kept climbing.

Pain.

Sherlock blinked. It took barely a second for the idea to form. A man like Moriarty wouldn't have broken his Silence. He would have used it, honed it to perfection, learned all its borders and carefully arranged his own life to work around them. Because Moriarty only knew how to shatter minds. He didn't know how they worked, how the Silence was anchored, how the pain triggers could be disabled. Sherlock didn't know either. But if there was one thing he had become an expert in, it was triggering dissonance.

One moment, he was struggling to keep his shields up, backed into a mental corner and on the defensive. The next, he gathered up his sentiment, all this strange new fierceness of emotion that bore John's name, and flung it at Moriarty in one monumental wave.

Moriarty had found ways to work around the triggers that would have stopped him from enjoying his crimes, from revelling in the carnage and bloodshed and violence.

But he had never had occasion to work around love. So Sherlock hit him with all of it, a messy flood of love and adoration and loyalty. He had never tried to destroy someone else's shields before but that was yet another thing Moriarty had never expected someone else to do to him. He certainly hadn't ever dreamt of having someone attack his mind with love.

Moriarty stumbled back, hissing, his hands going to his head as the dissonance set in almost instantly, overwhelming his synapses with its response to the sudden outburst of raw emotion.

But something must have gone wrong because there was a punch to Sherlock's chest, like a rubber band being snapped around his heart and the flood of emotion turned into a devastating hurricane.

Sherlock reacted the way he always did when he got overwhelmed by sentiment.

He lost consciousness.

 


	24. Chapter 23

John knew he had never run so fast in his life. Cars screeched to a stop and he launched himself across the hood of a vehicle that didn't get out of the way fast enough for his taste. Brakes screeched behind him and fibreglass shrieked. But John was already gone, propelled onward by a feeling that was more than fear or rage or love, an urgency that seemed to have been locked inside his very soul, waiting for this day to come.

He knew it had only been minutes, half an hour at most - he was fast and he knew where he was going and there was little traffic at this time of night.

He reached the old hangar of what had once been London City airport in an astonishing thirty-seven minutes. A cyclist would have needed about twice as long, depending on the speed at which they rode.

It didn't matter, though, because the bond was still there, weak but unmistakable. He didn't know what had happened to Sherlock but as long as he was still alive, John knew he could worry about the details later.

He found a hole in the fence that was large enough to accommodate him and squeezed through, slowing down to assess his surroundings.

The airport had been abandoned decades ago, when changelings and humans had finally managed to push all airports out of the city amidst tighter air traffic control regulations. It was one thing to argue that airplanes disturbed the neighbours and quite another to point out the risk to bird changelings whose aerial space got restricted by deathly airplanes. An airport within the city, the changelings and human environmentalists had argued, was not necessary when you had trains that allowed you to reach even Stansted Airport within twenty minutes from Liverpool Street Station.

Some of the old hangars had been repurposed as warehouses and half of them had been taken over by a logistics company, but the one John aimed for stood too far away from all the others to be of much use to investors and had fallen into disrepair after various failed attempts to turn it into a business space.

Vegetation had reclaimed the surrounding area and John noiselessly moved through it. This was what he had been built for. Camouflaged, nothing but another shadow in the night, he circled the building carefully. A van stood near a door and two Psy stood to attention beside it, clearly guards of some kind. John carefully investigated the entire area, straining his senses for any sounds, but could only make out those two.

He dispatched them as quickly and easily as mowing down grass and with just as little pity. The van smelled of Sherlock.

John carefully followed the trail of Sherlock's scent towards the door. It hadn't been closed properly and he glanced through the gap, making out some sort of anteroom and another open door leading further inside. He shouldered the door open just enough to squeeze through.

The angles squealed and he winced but kept going. Surprise was not going to be on his side here. If he was lucky, anyone inside the building would blame the movement of the door on the non-existent wind.

John ensured that the anteroom was empty of all threats and then moved on.

There was a voice somewhere in the dark beyond the second door, the hint of an Irish accent audible in the drawl. John hated that voice instantly and viscerally and that was before the words reached his sensitive ears and registered in his brain.

"What did you do?" the speaker demanded. "What was that you did to me? ANSWER ME!"

A low groan was the only reply and it sent a shiver of rage through John's body. Sherlock sounded wrecked and John could barely feel him through the bond. He knew Sherlock must have lost consciousness at some point because the bond between them had dimmed to little more than a flicker. That had been around the time when John had jumped across the car.

Now, though, he forced himself to slow down. To approach carefully, quietly.

There was only one source of light in the room, hidden behind a pile of wooden crates. They looked sturdy and John marked their position in case they might turn out useful later. The voice had come from somewhere behind them.

"Are you finished now? Will you finally stop this useless fight and let me in? You've been so good at this, you've kept me out for longer than anyone else I ever met. Why is that, do you think? I've never had anyone fight back like this, either. No one ever tried to attack my mind the way you did. And you did such a good job of it, too - it took me half an hour to recover and you did it a second time. Oh, Sherlock, I am going to pick your brain apart until I know exactly how you did that. Won't that be wonderful? Luckily, we don't have any pressing engagements."

Dear lord, he liked to hear himself talk, didn't he?

John used the other Psy's monologue to carefully round the next corner, being careful to stick to the darkest shadows. He couldn't risk looking around the next corner to take in the scene, not until he knew where the Psy was. It wouldn't do for him to notice John's eyes reflecting the light.

From the direction John had just come from came a high creaking noise and his ears twitched towards it. No footsteps. No breathing. Nothing. Just the door, moving ever so slightly and making the hinges creak.

But it was enough.

"I told you to stay outside!" the Psy called. "Hired muscle these days isn't worth half the money they demand. You stay right there, Sherlock. Wouldn't want to stop our fun, would we? I promise you'll have all my attention again in just a moment."

Footsteps disappeared into the dark, away from John, as the Psy rounded the crates on the other side.

John knew he would not have a lot of time until the man reached the outer door and discovered his two henchmen.

He rounded the final corner and there was Sherlock, lying in a half-curled position on the cold cement floor right beneath one bare light bulb, an overturned chair two feet away from him.

His eyes were open, bleary and unfocused. John saw them widen at the sight of him even as Sherlock's gaze sharpened.

_'This is me,'_ John thought. _'Do you fear me now?'_

But when he searched for any emotion coming from Sherlock through their bond, there was not a smidgeon of fear to be found.

*****

Sherlock recognised John the moment he came into view.

_'Of course'_ he thought. _'Of course this is you. Because you are a loner and you are magnificent and you are lethal and I got your human and changeling nature all wrong. I thought your cat hated wet feet and your human side loved baths. I was so blind. I should have seen you right from the start.'_

Huge paws, larger than Sherlock's entire hand from wrist to fingertip, padded noiselessly across the concrete floor towards him. He wanted to reach out, to assure John that he would be all right, to inform him that his shields had saved him - that weeks of reinforcing his shields so no one could learn of their touch experiment had saved him from Moriarty's attack on his mind, had protected him until something else had snapped into place, a different, stronger kind of weapon that Moriarty had no way of withstanding.

A weapon much like the remarkable changeling male now approaching him, hot breath ghosting over Sherlock's face as John made sure he was all right.

There was no way Sherlock could call him a ' _man'_ now. John, from his whiskers to the flicking tip of his tail, was no more human today than he had been at any other point in his life. He had made it seem so easy to look human, to act normal, to hide the predator prowling underneath his skin, he had even had Sherlock fooled, had made him forget about the lethal threat he lived with.

There was no hiding now.

" _Heeere kitty kitty!"_ Moriarty called from somewhere beyond Sherlock's line of sight, unaware of the danger he was courting. "I know you're _there_ , Johnny Boy! Not quite your kind's usual habitat, is it? All this concrete and steel. There's nothing but crates for you to climb, no bushes to hide in, no foliage to use for cover."

There weren't and Sherlock knew instantly that it didn't matter, that Moriarty didn't understand how changelings worked, that he had made the same mistake all Psy made until they learned better, until it was too late for the knowledge to be of any use. Moriarty thought that changelings were animals and, therefore, that they thought like animals, too.

But they weren't and so John didn't.

He had a lifetime's experience at uniting his dual nature, had learned how to work with it, to use the abilities and instincts of both halves to his advantage while he was still a cub and later refined them in the army, where any mistake could have been his last.

Now, he put his skills into practice.

Sherlock could do nothing but watch as John smoothly turned the corner of a stack of crates and disappeared from sight. There was a quiet scrabbling noise, the sound of claws on wood, and then silence.

"I know you're _heeeeeere_ , kitty!"

Moriarty moved into view between the crates, pausing to grin at Sherlock, lying alone on the floor. "Seems your pet doesn't care all that much for its owner," he drawled. "Or perhaps it got scared."

Sherlock would have laughed at him if he didn't fear it might tip Moriarty off.

"But don't you worry," the other Psy said, smirking coldly. "I will make a nice carpet out of his fur so you can see him every time I have you dragged to my office for some minor cleaning task. Rehabilitation won't leave you with the skills for anything else but I do hope you'll still recognise his head when it's mounted on my wall."

Sherlock kept his eyes firmly on Moriarty as he spoke, refusing to let his gaze slide off to the side where he was peripherally aware of movement in the shadows. Or perhaps he could simply feel John's presence. Either way, he was not about to give his attacker any advance warning.

Instead, he reached out with his mind, focusing the last of his telekinetic strength to move a crate off to the right, letting it scrape noisily across the floor as he fought to keep the strain off his face. Living with John had taught him something vital about the Psy: no matter how good your conditioning, no matter how strong your Silence - there were instincts that would always override the conscious mind. Instincts such as the urge to turn in the direction of an unexpected noise.

Moriarty whirled around, ready to face the threat.

He caught himself almost immediately, a condescending "Well done" half-formed on his lips, but that moment of distraction was all that John had needed.

He pounced.

*****

An interesting fact for the scientifically-minded: A fully grown tiger can kill a human being with a single pounce.

The science doesn't say anything about Psy with their more fragile bone structure or changelings intent on protecting their mates. Perhaps because some things are self-evident.

*****

There was a thud and the sickening crack of breaking bones.

And then silence.

*****

Lestrade stopped outside the door, waiting for his team to get into position. They weren't using comms for this - the entire team was made up of changelings and their hearing and eyesight was enough to communicate over the short distances provided by this section of the airfield and the hangar.

Someone had sent a message directly to Lestrade's datapad, requesting he come to this address as soon as possible. He knew of only one person who would have the knowledge and the ability to do such a thing, so he had not hesitated.

Everything was calm, quiet, but there was no telling what awaited them behind this door. They had already found two dead Psy beside a van next to the hangar. Whomever had dealt with them had made a quick job of it. A faint scent of blood tinted the air but it was impossible to tell if it only belonged to these two or someone still inside the hangar. A familiar-but-not scent hung in the air. It reminded him of John, but sharper, brighter. Less human.

He looked around. Donovan had almost soundlessly landed on the roof, having circled the building once, looking for windows, trying to get a glimpse of what was going on inside. She gave him a nod. All clear.

He waved his hand to his team and they opened the door, letting him enter first.

Quickly and quietly, they worked their way through empty hallways and past long-abandoned baggage wagons until they reached the main hangar. More old vehicles, towering mountains of crates forming deeper shadows in the dark, a lot of free space in the middle.

Two Psy lay on the floor, motionless.

One of them, his head at an unnatural angle, was clearly beyond help. The metallic stink of Psy and blood washed across Lestrade's senses and he wrinkled his nose, turning away to focus on the other Psy.

Tall, with a dark coat and dark hair just barely visible - it had to be Sherlock. Even from this distance, his scent was unmistakable.

But none of them really focused on him, too distracted by the other occupant of the room.

He was stretched out on the floor next to Sherlock, sheltering most of him from view and providing heat.

Some of the foxes cringed and all of them had stopped, whether in their animal or human form. No one wanted to be the first to step closer, to risk agonizing this unknown factor.

Lestrade took in the amber eyes, the position of the changeling's body in relation to Sherlock, and slowly lowered his gun.

"Hello, John."

The tiger blinked at him and stood, causing several of the Foxes to back up - even though changelings were larger than their animal counterparts, he was still more than twice their size.

Huge paws rested on either side of Sherlock's unmoving body, forming an impenetrable protective cage around him, armed with claws that could disembowel an adult in a single swipe. John opened his mouth and bared his teeth in warning - each of his canines was about the length of a grown man's hand. It was a very impressive display.

"I've never seen a tiger changeling before," Lestrade commented. "You lot keep to yourselves. Should have guessed, really."

John gave a low rumble in reply, then turned his head to nuzzle at Sherlock's face, blatantly disregarding the threat a fully armed team of predatory changelings represented.

They were dangerous, yes, but John was lethal.

"Guns down," Lestrade ordered. "And don't approach Sherlock, unless you want me to explain to your families that you died because you were being stupid."

All around, safeties were engaged and guns lowered. He nodded.

"Now, John, may we approach this other guy you have dispatched? I'm assuming we're looking at the bastard responsible for all these murders?"

John nodded, his eyes going back and forth between Sherlock and the Foxes closest to them. They were clever enough to make a wide berth around him as they approached the body.

"Broken neck," one reported. "Clean kill. Looks like he fell and broke his neck. Probably because he was, uh, pounced on."

They all looked at John, who growled.

"Seems like a reasonable assumption to make," Lestrade said. "I'll take his statement later, once he has decided to shift back."

He took a small step forward. "John, mind if I approach? You know I won't do anything to him but we might want to check Sherlock over for any injuries. You don't seem like your medical skills are going to be of help right now."

John very slowly lifted one paw, giving access to Sherlock's head and upper body without moving more than twenty centimetres away from him. The look in his eyes said that was all they were going to get.

Lestrade put his own gun down and very carefully stepped forward, approaching slowly. From this close, he could smell both John and Sherlock and instantly understood the cause of the low growl coming from deep within John's throat.

"It's all right," he murmured. "No one is going to harm your mate now."

His packmates, already on high alert, edged farther away. To come near a predatory changeling intent on protecting their mate was akin to suicide. A newly mated pair was even worse. They were predators themselves, but they all knew where they ranked on the food chain in comparison to a tiger. They and the bears were the two changeling species everyone made way for out of sheer self-preservation.

Lestrade figured he had a better chance of approaching than anyone else in the room. John - the human half of John at least - and he were friends and even Sherlock might describe him as an ally, if pressed.

He paused three feet away and slowly crouched down. "I just want to check him for injuries, see if we can wake him. How long has he been out?"

John shrugged and nodded towards the dead Psy lying on the other side of the hall.

"Since you killed that one, approximately? Okay. I think we might need a healer with Psy expertise, or at least get another Psy's input on this."

John's growl intensified.

"I know, I don't like it either. But I have no idea how to deal with this. I'm not a healer and our pack healer won't be able to do anything for him. We'll have to risk it."

Lestrade paused, considering. "Doesn't he have a brother? Granted, Psy don't give a shit about family unless they're somehow useful to them, but do you think he'd be willing to help?"

"I will take over from here," a cool voice said behind him and Lestrade whirled to find two Psy males standing in the doorway. One of them looked like a soldier, though he seemed to be using a prosthetic arm. The other looked like ... well, like the Psy Councillor they sometimes saw on the news. He had the night-sky eyes of a Cardinal.

"How the bloody hell did you get in here?" Lestrade snapped. "This is an active crime scene!"

He was completely ignored. To further confirm the man's identity, John growled at him.

"Now, now, Doctor Watson. I am sure we can dispense with the pleasantries on this occasion," Councillor Holmes said. "For once, our goals are the same. I trust you will not shred me to pieces when I approach - I am sure my brother will eventually have need of me. And so might you, come to that."

He stepped forward, the soldier never once leaving his side and staying so close to him they were almost touching. A personal bodyguard?

John reluctantly made a bit of room so Mycroft could crouch down next to his brother. Cardinal eyes flared fully black for a moment before he blinked and nodded. "Total flame-out. He must have spent a considerable amount of psychic energy. His shields have held remarkably well despite that but he has placed himself in a vulnerable position in the Net. I will add my own shields around his mind to keep out intruders."

Another flare of blackness eclipsed the stars in the Psy's eyes. "His psychic energy will have recovered in the next twenty-four hours. He will spend most or perhaps all of that time asleep. Do not attempt to wake him and make sure he is well-nutritioned once he does."

Turning to John, he said: "If you would like a lift to Baker Street, we can have you there instantly."

John blinked at him, clearly not liking the idea of trusting the Psy.

In the end, concern for Sherlock won over his mistrust. He inclined his head. "Both of you together, of course," Mycroft added. "As a show of good faith."

He pulled his phone from his pocket and quickly searched through it before holding it out to the soldier at his side. "Here, if you please."

The Psy nodded, stepped forward and said coolly. "If you will hold on to my arm, Councillor. Dr Watson, I will need to be in physical contact with both you and Mr Holmes."

He reached out with his good arm and grasped Sherlock's shoulder. John shoved his head under the Psy's arm.

"What-" Lestrade began, but a moment later they were gone.

Cursing, he jumped up. "Bloody Psy! A freaking _Teleporter_!" He pulled out his phone to call John and make sure they had arrived where they were supposed to be before remembering that John was in the wrong shape to answer a phone call.

"What next?" Donovan asked, jogging towards him. She had shifted and found some clothes to put on and had managed to return just in time to see the four disappear.

"The usual procedure," Lestrade sighed. "Evaluate the scene, collect all evidence, get a coroner for the body, dot every i and cross every t."

"What about Holmes?"

"We'll take his statement when he wakes up," Lestrade told her. "Provided John allows anyone inside the flat for a while. Did you smell them?"

She shook her head. "I was too far away and my sense of smell isn't as developed as yours."

Her eyesight was much better than average to make up for the difference, though. Ravens didn't require a good sense of smell. They had other ways of finding prey.

Lestrade nodded. "Right. Anyway, we don't want to get between a newly mated pair. John might tear us apart."

Her jaw dropped. "Did you say _mated_?"

"Certainly. If they smelled any stronger of one another, I'd have trouble distinguishing them with my eyes closed. Anyway, I will be going over there in the morning to take John's statement, see if we can make sense of all this while Sherlock is still out."

She shrugged. "It's your life."

*****

John blinked and found himself standing outside their home at 221b Baker Street. The Psy let go of Sherlock and moved back.

"I will help you carry him inside," Mycroft said. "You are not in the right shape to get my brother up these stairs on your own. Unless you were planning to drag him?"

Turning to the soldier, he added. "Wait here."

"Sir..."

"No harm will come to me in this house," Mycroft told him. "But I can not let you get a lock on the interior."

"Yes, sir."

Mycroft bent down and lifted Sherlock into his arms.

John privately thought that Sherlock's telekinesis was far more useful than telepathy; Mycroft's near limitless telepathic power clearly didn't help when it came to physical tasks.

Luckily, Mrs Hudson was home and had heard them outside. She came to open the door and jumped back with a startled shriek at the sight of John.

"Good evening, Mrs Hudson," Mycroft said in what he probably thought was a pleasant tone of voice. "I'm returning your tenants to you. My brother will require rest and I believe John will be happiest if they were left entirely to themselves for a while."

"Oh, John!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, visibly pulling herself together to override her natural flight response. "I'm so sorry for reacting like that, I really didn't expect ... but you finally shifted again! And look how gorgeous you are!"

Her attention turned to Sherlock. "And what has happened to our Sherlock?"

"My brother will be fine," Mycroft said calmly. "I would ... appreciate ... being able to put him down in his own bed, however."

"Oh, of course. Do come in!"

She held open the door and stepped aside so Mycroft could step over the threshold and carry Sherlock up to the flat, John close at his heels to make sure the Psy would not overbalance and topple backwards down the stairs.

He allowed Mycroft to carry Sherlock all the way to his room and watched as the Psy carefully deposited his brother on the bed.

"Remember to let him sleep, John. He may very well remain unconscious for the next twenty-four hours. I assure you it is not cause for concern. Otherwise, I would have called a medic already."

John rumbled a response and hopped onto the bed next to Sherlock, stretching out by his side. He had no intention of going anywhere until his mate opened his eyes again.

"I will be taking my leave now," Mycroft continued. "If you require anything, you can contact me via Sherlock's datapad. I believe he has saved me in his contacts under _'Overbearing Nuisance'_." His mouth twisted downwards, a clear sign of disapproval for something as sentimental as a nickname - albeit a not very friendly one. "I may also be sending someone over with supplies. Expect Anthea tomorrow morning. She will have instructions not to enter the flat, so try not to kill her by accident. Good personnel is so hard to find these days."

John growled at him, already getting fed up with the man's presence.

Luckily, Mycroft appeared to take the hint and finally left. John heard him close the door on his way out and a short, stilted conversation with Mrs Hudson in the hallway.

He decided to ignore everything that wasn't of any concern right now and focused on Sherlock.

His mate.

He could feel the bond anchored deep within his heart, a connection that would not be severed by anything but death. Right now, he couldn't feel a thing through it - Sherlock was too deeply unconscious for any emotion to be transmitted - but John knew it would open again once Sherlock woke. He had been able to feel him earlier, before the flame-out had knocked him out, and it had been the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to him in all his life. Beautiful and breathtakingly terrifying, seeing as Sherlock had been at the mercy of a murderous psychopath at the time. If anything had happened to him, if John had lost him ... the agony would have killed him, frankly.

He shifted a little closer, sniffing at Sherlock's hair, letting the reassuring scent of his mate wash over him.

They were safe and reasonably unharmed. Sherlock would be fine in a couple of hours. Nothing and nobody could tear them apart now.

And if anyone tried ... well. They would soon learn to really appreciate that tiger changelings were just as rare as their animal counterparts.


	25. Chapter 24

There was something huge and heavy next to him. It radiated heat and danger. He woke knowing that by all rights, he should be dead.

He woke feeling safer than he ever had in his entire life.

Sherlock groaned and opened his eyes.

He was in his bedroom - there was no questioning this. It was either early morning or late evening, the sun's light weak but enough to illuminate his room through the half-drawn curtains.

Next to him, John was awake and watching him, his yellow eyes fixed on Sherlock's face.

"I'm fine," he rasped. His head hurt and every bone in his body seemed to be made of lead, but it paled in the face of this. Of John. All of John, finally free.

Sherlock licked his lips and cleared his throat. "I see you haven't gone on a murdering spree in our bedroom."

Perhaps it was a bit premature to jump to the plural possessive but John merely huffed, a hot puff of air that made Sherlock wrinkle his nose. "And you've got terrible breath, let me tell you. Is this a cat thing?"

He got a baleful look in return before John shifted. It happened in a shower of rainbow sparks and seemed to take both forever and no time at all. One moment, there was a massive tiger on his bed. The next, there was John. A very naked John.

"Oh thank god," John said, grasping Sherlock's face in both hands. "Are you all right? How is your head?"

"Hurts," Sherlock told him. "It will be fine. Give it a couple of hours and some medication."

John pressed their foreheads together. "Your brother said you had a flame-out."

Sherlock sighed. "Yes. Spent too much psychic energy. I had to keep him out of my mind. He was good. Sneaky. Attacked me unexpectedly so I could not use my Telekinesis to fight him. He was very strong." He paused. "Physically, not so much."

John hummed in agreement.

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured.

"No need to thank me for that," John told him. "He would have died either way for killing all those changelings."

"Will you get in trouble?"

John shook his head. "I was defending you. Apart from defending a cub, that trumps anything."

Sherlock turned his head a little, letting his nose trail along John's ear. The great thing about a total flame-out was that it would take some time for his psychic abilities to fully recover. And until then, the dissonance had no hold on him. He had never felt so free.

"Defending me," he said softly. "Your mate. You were defending your mate. _Me_." The words seemed odd in his mouth, like they didn't belong.

John pulled back a little so they could look into one another's eyes. "Yes," he said softly. "But you knew that already."

Sherlock nodded. "I felt it," he said. "When it snapped into place. I felt it. Why then?"

"I shifted," John explained. "For the first time since Afghanistan, I allowed myself to be fully me. Both sides of me. I was finally ... whole. And all of me loved you. Loves you. And you needed me and you felt- _feel_ ... the same way. And that was all it took."

"It was all I could think of," Sherlock confessed. "Even as he was attacking me, all I could think of was you. And suddenly... I felt it, like an electric shock, like the snap of a rubber band around the wrist except it was around my soul." He frowned. "That doesn't make any sense."

"I know what you mean," John assured him.

"Of course you do. You always do." Sherlock smiled. "I felt that. And then... it was as if he couldn't reach me properly anymore. It was exhausting him. He kept demanding to know what I had done."

"I think I caught some of that," John murmured. "He must have been furious. But he said you had attacked him, too. What did you do?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Sentiment. I shoved everything I felt for you against his shields until I managed to break through and overwhelm his mind. The dissonance bought enough time for me to catch my breath and patch up some holes in my shields where he almost got through. And I believe it gave you enough time to come find me. He was ... quite out of it for a long while. So I did it to him again but I didn't have enough power left to really use it to my advantage. By the time you arrived, I was too close to a flame-out to manage any sort of attack."

"That's all right," John murmured. "That's what you've got me for. The brawn to your brains."

"You're hardly an idiot yourself," Sherlock told him firmly. "Don't sell yourself short. I really can't be seen with a mate who isn't utterly aware of how bloody fantastic he is. What on earth would people think of me?"

"Of _you_? What do you think they'll think of _me_ , hooking up with a Psy?" John laughed.

"It's a shame I was unconscious for whatever else happened at the warehouse," Sherlock mused. "Did the Yarders show up?"

John nodded. "And never has a pack of foxes been more terrified than when they saw me standing over you and Lestrade promised no one would hurt my mate now. I think one of them backed away all the way to the door."

"A wise choice. I wouldn't have wanted to get on your bad side, either. You should have seen yourself in there. You were magnificent. I looked at you and I knew I had never seen anything more amazing in my entire life."

"Mmh, better get used to it," John told him. "Now that I've got that first shift out of the way, it's going to be a much more frequent occurrence."

"About time," Sherlock said. "I told you it wouldn't be a problem."

"Well, I did kill three Psy and cause some minor road accidents," John pointed out.

"You dispatched a serial killer and his henchmen while saving my life," Sherlock countered. "And I'm sure any accidents can be put down to people being incapable of focusing on more than one thing at a time, though I can hardly blame them. I find it extremely difficult to focus on anything but you at the best of times."

"You never let on." One of John's hands stroked down his side and Sherlock shivered, nerves sparking at the contact.

"That was rather the point," he managed to say once he remembered how vocal chords worked. "I was trying to be Silent, remember?"

"Hm, you had me fooled for a while there," John admitted. "At least until you kissed me."

Sherlock recalled the almost furious desperation he had felt, the absolute certainty that he could not go as much as another second without kissing John.

He said so out loud and John laughed and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's hair. "Speaking of ... how is the dissonance?"

"There isn't any," Sherlock said happily. He glanced up and noticed John's sceptical face. "No, really. Not a twinge. Total flame-out, remember? The triggers are inactive because there is no power for them to contain at the moment. There is no TK I could lose control over. Therefore, anything goes."

John propped himself up on his elbow. "Anything?"

Sherlock smiled at him. "Anything."

They stared at one another for a long moment and Sherlock wondered if his own eyes were as wide and dark as John's.

John licked his lips. "I remember you saying something about wanting to continue an experiment of yours before we were so rudely interrupted."

Sherlock hummed. "Mmmh, so I did. I believe I still have some toes in the frid-"

He didn't get to finish because John, laughing, grabbed his head and kissed the words right out of his mouth.

For all the hunger it managed to convey, it was a soft kiss, gentle apart from the underlying urgency.

Sherlock moaned, for the first time able to fully enjoy the contact without having to worry about pain or anyone finding out about what they were doing. For now, they were safe.

"How long until your batteries have recharged?" John panted against his mouth.

"At least a couple of hours more," Sherlock replied. "Better to not waste a minute, though."

John nodded and kissed him again and Sherlock turned, managing to roll onto his back and drag John with him without separating their mouths even once.

How on earth had his race ever chosen to give this up? How had anyone who had ever kissed someone they loved made the decision to nip all emotion in the bud? It seemed incomprehensible to him. He couldn't imagine anything that could possibly convince him to not kiss John every day for the rest of his life.

Warm hands on his body, fingers stroking along his cheek and carding through his hair, trailing down his neck and roaming across his chest. He had never been touched that much in all his life. It was glorious. Unfamiliar, yes, but glorious.

Every new touch was a revelation, a brand new discovery of something he had never known before or thought he would want to know.

Like the feeling of John's fingers pressing into the dips between his ribs through his shirt, the warm hands bracketing his hips, the taste of John's tongue in his mouth, the taste of John's mouth when Sherlock dared to reciprocate.

He was a quick learner and right now he was grateful for it. Saving time was essential and he wanted to be an expert at this in no time at all. He wanted to spend the rest of his life doing nothing but this. How did changelings and humans ever make it out of bed and into society? They must have exceptional impulse control. Sherlock didn't think he could bear being separated from John right now.

If anyone tried, he was reasonably sure John would kill them. He found he didn't mind at all.

He lost track of time for a bit - it couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes because they were both still in the same position as they had been before, not counting their hands. Sherlock had discovered the joy of grasping at John's biceps and cupping his shoulder blade with his hand, cataloguing the flex of muscles and sinews beneath his fingers.

He just wished he could feel more of them, feel John's touch on his skin, have John's entire body pressed to his.

"Please," he gasped, moving his mouth away from John's just long enough to pant out the words. "Touch me."

John groaned. "Anything."

And Sherlock knew he meant it, could feel John's joy and elation through the bond between them, felt his own helpless desire returned tenfold.

It was a struggle to get upright, to have John sit up and move away from him to give him some room. With clumsy fingers, he reached for the edges of his shirt and pulled at it, dragging it out of his trousers and pulling at the buttons until he could shrug it off and fling it away. There was no reason to be afraid of what John might think of his body - he could feel and see his reaction and that was all the reassurance he needed. He had never felt desired before but he doubted it could get any more honest and intense than this.

John lurched forward and pressed his mouth to his neck, sucking at the vulnerable soft skin where Sherlock's pulse beat much too fast.

Sherlock moaned and threw his head back, giving up on his trousers for the time being. He honestly couldn't remember how buttons worked.

"Let me," John murmured.

"Yes," Sherlock gasped. "God, yes."

Warm hands at his waist, fingers tracing the waistband of his trousers, and then the instant relief as John snapped open the button and pulled down the zipper.

Sherlock arched against him. "I'm ... so glad your clothes disintegrate when you shift," he gasped. "It's ... hm... very useful."

John laughed. "It's not quite so fun when you have to constantly re-buy your clothes. Or when you accidentally wear your favourite t-shirt and don't bother to take it off before."

"I could help you with that," Sherlock suggested rather breathlessly. "I wouldn't mind."

John laughed and kissed his neck again, pushing until Sherlock lay down again, half-naked and desperate to get there all the way.

He had never had anyone pay this much attention to his body, including himself. John's undivided attention was more intoxicating than any dose of Jax Sherlock had ever taken in his youth.

"Get these off me," he demanded, grasping John's hand and unceremoniously guiding it back to his trousers. "Right now."

*****

If this was a dream, John never wanted to wake up from it.

Sherlock was spread out beneath him, eyes half-lidded and sparking with pleasure, his curly hair wild and untamed on the pillow after John had spent many long minutes running his fingers through it, lithe pale chest heaving with each breath he took.

He wasn't as thin as he always managed to appear and while he was definitely more on the sinewy than the muscular side, his chest was still well-defined and John found himself wanting to lick every inch of it.

And now this ... Sherlock, all but ordering him to help him out of his clothes, as if John needed any additional incentive to absolutely devour him.

He remembered how he had once determined to make Sherlock feel wanted and loved, to make him never go without this feeling again. Now was his chance and he would make the most of it. You didn't get everything you had ever wanted served on a silver platter without accepting it.

He hoped Sherlock didn't notice the slight tremor in his hands as he took hold of his waistband and pulled, but this was Sherlock Holmes - he noticed everything. Then again, perhaps this once he would be too distracted by the novelty of ... well, everything about this.

Sherlock lifted his hips and his trousers slid past them and down those long legs easily. The soft whisper of the fabric was unnaturally loud in the room and for a long moment they simply stared at one another, amazed by the simple fact of each other's existence.

"God, you're gorgeous," John murmured, slowly dragging his eyes up and down Sherlock's body. For a brief moment, he had considered not staring at him but he might as well try not to breathe. How long had he been wanting to see Sherlock like this? How long had he watched this body move around the flat and fought the urge to just shove him against the nearest wall or down onto the sofa and kiss his way down that long neck?

And now he was allowed.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. You are ... magnificent."

With the way Sherlock was looking at him, John actually believed him. Sherlock wasn't one for hyperbole, after all, and he never said something he didn't mean unless he was actively lying. There was no reason for him to be doing so right now.

John grinned at him, enjoying the attention. This was his mate, his everything. He might stare as long as he wanted.

But of course Sherlock was not one to be content with staring when he could be touching instead, now that he was finally able to do so.

He reached out and pulled John back on top of him and they both cursed softly as their bodies pressed together, chest to chest.

Large, curious hands traced down John's back and took hold of his arse and he choked back a sound that was half groan and half laugh.

Sherlock merely moaned happily, tightening his grip a little. "Perrrrrfect."

He rolled his 'r' like a purr and John couldn't get their mouths together fast enough to feel the sound reverberating through him.

"How long have you been wanting to do that?" he asked, smirking even as his tiger gloried in the feeling of being petted by his mate.

"Oh, about a couple of months at least," Sherlock said. "I've always had an interest in the male physiology and you were right there for close-up study all the time. It all got a bit more intense when I started my experiment, of course. I never wanted to stop touching you. I realised quite quickly that I had made a terrible mistake."

John laughed. "Not quite so terrible now, is it?"

He rolled his hips before Sherlock could open his mouth and let his rational mind ruin the moment for them and Sherlock's head dropped back, a sharp moan spilling from those lips. "Oh, oh god, John!"

He did it again, watching Sherlock's eyes flutter shut. "Yessss."

God, he was so responsive. It was utterly delightful to watch, to feel this body unravel beneath him as Sherlock gave up control to his transport and seemed to revel in every moment of it.

They had earned this, damn it. They had earned this moment and they would make the most of it.

"Stop thinking," Sherlock told him, dragging John's head down for a kiss. "It's distracting."

It was just their bodies after that, moving together, finding a rhythm that worked for them.

John thought he could live for the noises Sherlock made, surprised little sips of sound as John reached down to stroke his cock, a startled gasp that morphed into a moan when John's mouth closed around his left nipple. He could live off of this alone.

It had been so long since he had been in a relationship, since he had actually cared about the person in bed with him, but this was different.

This was his mate, his mate, his mate.

The word roared through John's head, echoed through his heart and soul until his movements turned frantic and his skin ached wherever it didn't touch Sherlock's.

He had never felt more alive in as long as he could remember, never felt this sort of mindless obsession with another person's body.

He nipped and sucked at any bit of Sherlock's skin he could reach. God, his skin. So warm and soft and inviting. And he was so alive and responsive, not at all like the cold Psy he had first met all those months ago.

The Psy in question threw his head back and shouted as their cocks slid together, coming apart under John's touch so violently John had to hold him down to prevent him from accidentally smacking his arm against the bed frame. Sherlock's entire body shook beneath him, all the breath punched from his lungs at once. He looked dazed and, underneath that, surprised. John thought he'd never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

He held still, let Sherlock feel every inch of their bodies pressed together, helpless with love and lust in equal measure. He was so hard it hurt but if his mate needed him to, he would stay like this for hours, unmoving, and count himself lucky.

*****

After several long minutes, Sherlock had recovered enough to attempt speech.

"Oh."

John chuckled and leaned down to kiss the surprise right out of his mouth. "Quite."

Sherlock clung to his mate as if he might disappear, mouth clumsy and uncoordinated as he returned the kiss. His mind was swimming with endorphins and he was still struggling to compute.

Of course he had seen humans and changelings touching each other, had seen them hold hands and hug and kiss. But somehow, despite John's explanation of intimate skin privileges so long ago and despite his own rudimentary understanding of copulation, he had never quite realised that touch was not restricted to hands alone.

It had never occurred to him that John might touch him with _his entire body_. It certainly hadn't occurred to him that he might enjoy it, much less feel as if he needed it more than his next breath.

Earlier, it had seemed hard to believe that his race had ever given up kissing. But now, with the aftershocks of his orgasm still lingering in his system, the thought that they had given up sex was utterly incomprehensible. He'd rather give up anything but this.

And right now, all he wanted was more. More touch, more of John.

He may be inexperienced in this, but there was no trial and error in the way he slid his hand down John's side and between them, heedless of the sticky mess on his stomach. Psy hated making a mess but Sherlock certainly didn't care.

"Mine," Sherlock murmured in his ear, long fingers wrapping around John's cock. "This is mine."

He knew the blatant claim spoke to John's tiger as much as the rest of him - he could feel John shiver in response and he heard it in the huskiness of his voice when he responded.

"Yes. I'm only ever yours, love."

Sherlock hummed and pushed at his shoulder until John obliged and rolled over.

"Mine."

Lips on John's neck, on his chest, moving across his abdomen. The fact that he was able, allowed, even blatantly _encouraged_ to touch John's body was beyond Sherlock's wildest imaginings.

John's muscles twitched and his hips stuttered as Sherlock nosed along one hip bone and his breathing had grown heavy and a bit short. Had he realised yet what Sherlock intended to do? He must have. Sherlock knew better than to assume he had anything approaching subtlety on his side.

He grasped John's hips and scooted back a little to drink him in, the infinite softness of him stretched over a steely core, much like John himself. So deceptive, so marvellous.

"Mine," Sherlock murmured again, just before closing his lips around him.

Even as he did it, it occurred to Sherlock that it was the first time since he had broken Silence for good that he was intent on consuming something other than a bland Psy meal. How fitting that the first thing he actively tasted in this new life would be his mate.

Salt and musk and something all male, all John, that shot straight to Sherlock's core.

" _Oh_ ," he sighed and dove back down for another taste.

John cursed, writhing on the mattress at the relentless, curious licks and kisses Sherlock bestowed upon him, each touch a delightful surprise to both of them.

Sherlock would have smiled if he could have and opted to twist his tongue instead, trying to map out every inch of his mate.

Above him, John moaned, unable to resist the urge of reaching down and burying his fingers in Sherlock's curls. It felt good, grounding. Sherlock hummed around him and tilted his head, just enough for several strands of hair to snag on John's fingers and pull taut. A tingling sensation shot from his scalp all the way down his spine.

Sherlock gasped and pulled his mouth away.

"Sorry-" John began.

"Again," Sherlock ordered, barely recognising his own voice. "Do that again."

John twisted his hand, gently tugging at the curls, and Sherlock's eyes flutter closed. " _Ahhh_."

If he hadn't come already, he thought this sensation alone might be enough to push him over the edge. His cock made a half-hearted attempt to harden and Sherlock moaned around John's hot length in his mouth. John's hands pushed at his shoulders, rather feebly, a clear warning that Sherlock chose to ignore. He wanted to _taste_ and it wouldn't do for John's chivalry to get in the way of his goal now.

He moaned again and felt John thicken impossibly more before spilling into his mouth, hot and bitter and undeniably _him_. Sherlock would replace his every meal with this if it were possible.

Finally, he pulled away and allowed John to drag him back up and into his arms.

"That was ...." Sherlock began and then stopped. Words failed him.

"I know," John murmured, pulling him close. "I know, love."

He couldn't seem to stop touching him, letting his hand run up and down Sherlock's back, pressing his mouth to his clavicle, his neck, the line of his jaw. Sherlock returned every touch, every kiss, caught between his lingering disbelieving and utter joy.

They fell asleep still wrapped up in each other, for once perfectly content to let the world wait a while.

*****

They were woken hours later by an insistent pinging of John's datapad.

Groaning he reached for it and tried to focus his bleary eyes on the screen. It only took a moment for all traces of sleepiness to evaporate from his system.

"Sherlock."

"Mhhh?"

"Emily has messaged me. DarkRiver have responded to our request for a call."

Sherlock blinked and sat up. "Did they agree to it?"

John put the datapad aside and grasped Sherlock's face in both his hands. "Today, 4pm our time."


	26. Chapter 25

Sherlock would never admit it but he felt intensely nervous as he and John approached the WhiteSpot den. They kept their usual two feet distance between them that was the norm when they were anywhere where a Psy might see them and report back about Sherlock being suspiciously close to a changeling.

Of course, the fact that he was in the company of a changeling at all was already quite damning but he had no doubt the Council already knew that the younger brother of one of their members lived in a rather unconventional flat-share. After taking out Moriarty, he hoped they had earned themselves some leeway.

Emily and Tyson met them halfway through the park and the smile on Emily's face when she took in their scent was almost blinding.

"Oh John, I'm so happy for you!" She rushed forward and hugged him and Sherlock felt a sudden and intense urge to snarl at her. She seemed to notice his sudden tension for she immediately backed away again. "Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean... he's all yours."

"Yes," Sherlock said firmly. "He is."

There would be no arguing about this. He didn't care what anyone in the world had to say about this. John was his and he was John's and that was all that mattered.

Which was why this meeting had him on edge.

The two ocelots led them to the den. The moment the door closed behind them, John reached out and grasped Sherlock's hand, lacing their fingers together as they walked past all the guards and right into their comms room at the heart of the building. No one tried to stop them though several people were openly gaping at them. Sherlock wondered if they were more astonished at John having found his mate or at that mate being Psy. Something to think about later, perhaps.

He stepped into the comms room and introductions were made to the WhiteSpot alpha, Rafe, who clapped John on the back and actually shook Sherlock's hand.

"Welcome to the dark side," he said, smiling.

"Thank you," Sherlock replied. "I believe I prefer it to my previous state of being."

John squeezed his hand and beamed up at him. "And I haven't even introduced you to chocolate yet."

A collective _"Ohhhh"_ went around the room and Sherlock wondered why this specific food item, out of all of them, managed to garner such a response.

"Perhaps you will get a chance soon, if this call goes as well as we are hoping," he murmured.

John nodded. "Are we ready?" he asked Tyson, who had taken his place at the comm controls. "When are they going to call?"

"We're doing the calling," Tyson replied. "They said to ring through whenever we're ready."

Sherlock noticed the astonishment on John's face. "I take it that is unusual."

"It's a large pack," John said. "Some would argue the most powerful pack in the world right now. They have countless businesses and all sorts of important contacts. They must be really interested if they've managed to be this flexible with their time."

"And of course they'll want their important people to be there," Tyson added. "So you'd better be prepared to speak directly to the alpha."

Sherlock filed that information away and braced himself. "Go on then," he said. "We're not going to be any more ready in five minutes than we are now."

"At least take a seat first," Emily suggested. "Make yourself comfortable."

With a hand on his back, John steered Sherlock to the conference table in the middle of the room and they sat down next to each other, pulling their chairs as close together as possible.

The others sat down next to them, Emily choosing the chair on Sherlock's other side while her alpha sat next to John. He looked nervous and Sherlock didn't blame him. How often did a small pack like this get the chance to deal with the big players, the ones who actively changed the world they all lived in?

"Going live in 3 ... 2.... 1..." Tyson called and pushed a button.

The large screen before them flickered to live and a man with dark hair and the greenest eyes Sherlock had ever seen grinned at them. Three vicious red slashes like claw marks ran down the side of his face. He was sitting at a conference table not dissimilar to the one they were sitting at, next to a beautiful woman with skin that was just a shade too dark to be Caucasian and a slight tilt to her eyes that Sherlock attributed to at least one East-Asian grandparent.

But it was the smile on her face and the night-sky eyes that marked her as a Cardinal that took his breath away.

Sherlock felt John shift next to him and almost missed the strange male's greeting.

"Hello," he said calmly. "I'm Lucas Hunter, Alpha of the DarkRiver pack. This is my mate, Sasha."

_'Mate'_ Sherlock thought, unable to tear his eyes away from this woman who was so clearly Psy and yet so very different from any Psy he had ever met. _'So all the stories were real. Councillor Nikita Duncan's daughter defected and is mated to the alpha of the most powerful changeling pack in the world.'_

He didn't know if he wanted to laugh or cry. He was dimly aware of Rafe returning the greeting and introducing the other occupants of the room but could not pay attention. Up until this moment, he had not allowed himself to fully believe the stories he had heard.

"You look overwhelmed," Sasha noted and her voice was so warm, so full of compassion and kindness it sent a ripple through the room.

"I never thought ..." Sherlock swallowed. "I never thought I would see someone like you. I could not allow myself to believe that such a thing actually existed."

"She does tend to exceed all expectations," Lucas Hunter said, looking at his mate with undisguised adoration. Sherlock wondered if this was how he looked at John. He hoped so.

Lucas Hunter's eyes focused on him again. "You are Psy."

"Yes." There was no point denying it.

"Yet here you are, with an ocelot pack."

"And my mate," Sherlock added, to get it out of the way immediately. The alpha barely blinked. Sasha smiled at them.

Lucas tilted his head. "You are related to Councillor Holmes, are you not?"

"That would be my older brother," Sherlock said calmly, forcing all of his emotions far away. "Though I dare say that it would be rather hypocritical to judge me for my brother's occupation while your own mate is the daughter of a Councillor herself."

The changelings around him sucked in a collective breath at this direct challenge and out of the corner of his eye he saw John bury his face in his hands, shaking his head.

Lucas Hunter, however, grinned. "I like you. You've got nerve."

"He's also right," Sasha added and Sherlock wondered if he was imagining her eyes shining brighter.

"Now that we've all agreed that my brother is irrelevant to this conversation," Sherlock said impatiently, "I was hoping to ask you some questions."

"Is that so?" Lucas Hunter crossed his arms. "What if I do not wish to answer them?"

"First of all, you would not be on this call if you hadn't taken an interest already," Sherlock pointed out. "And secondly, I was talking to your mate. What I want to know can not be answered by you."

Sasha nodded solemnly. "You want to know how I dropped out of the Net and survived."

Sherlock held her gaze through the camera. "Yes. It is the only option I have. I have broken Silence in the most obvious way. But the Protocol still has me in its grip. The dissonance is still present and will likely set in again very quickly. I also believe that my continued presence in the Net is a security risk for myself and everyone around me. I need to get out."

She glanced at her mate and then at the other people in the room with Sherlock. "This is not your pack," she said softly, her eyes landing on John. "You are not part of WhiteSpot."

He shook his head. "My family pack is SilentShadow up in Northern England. I'm a loner and I haven't been home in years. Sherlock is all the pack I need."

Sherlock turned to look at him, wishing he could just project all the love and adoration he felt for John right into his head so he would understand. And then he remembered the mating bond and sent the emotion that way instead.

Perhaps one day, he would learn how to love John out loud, to actually put it in words. Right now, he could already feel the beginnings of the dissonance setting in again as his TK reserves slowly recharged.

He refocused his attention on the DarkRiver alpha couple. "So how did you do it?"

She shook her head. "You need to understand that it was not simple and a lot of it was luck. What you also need to understand is that a changeling pack works a lot like its own PsyNet, except on an emotional level. All pack members are connected to their alpha and that bond is a strong link we can perceive on the mental plane. I was mated to Lucas, so I got pulled into his pack. As the alpha, he all but dragged me out of the PsyNet because his mind had a greater hold on mine than the PsyNet did. I just ... severed the link to the PsyNet and fell straight into the pack structure. They cannot use it consciously but it connects them all the same and it provided me with enough biofeedback to survive. Changelings are very emotional, which made the transition easier for me. As an E-Psy, this is where I belong."

Sherlock frowned. "I have never heard of that designation."

"You wouldn't have. For the longest time, E-Psy were terminated before their birth or had their abilities trained out of them. Most simply did not survive in the PsyNet under Silence. For most of my life, I thought I was a latent Cardinal - that whatever my power was, it simply did not manifest. I now know it was all a lie. Psy like me still exist, though there are few. We are the Empaths."

John let out a soft curse and Sherlock felt his own mouth drop open. Empath.

But ... why not? There were so many designations, why would there not be Empaths? Silence, after all, had been a Psy invention, not a result of natural evolution. Their designations, on the other hand ... and Psy had not always been an emotionless race. Psy had not always been Silent.

"So you left the large, cold PsyNet for a small, emotional network made up of changeling minds," Sherlock observed. "And that was enough."

She nodded. "Yes. When Faith defected as well and joined our pack, it got even easier. With two Psy minds, the net is far more stable now. I call it the Web of Stars - it is a much more colourful space than the PsyNet."

But while the changelings around him smiled at the thought that their own packs had a similar structure connecting them, Sherlock heard the message she had not been able to bring herself to say out loud.

"In that case, leaving the Net will be impossible for me," he said softly. "There are no other adult Psy I know who would be willing or able to defect and form a new network with me."

Molly might, but she alone would likely not be enough.

He had never even thought such a thing were possible, had never even considered creating an entirely separate network. It seemed so obvious in hindsight. Usually, when Psy dropped out of the Net, they were assumed to be dead for no Psy could survive without the biofeedback. But if what Sasha said was true, then there was a big chance that a lot of other Psy had not actually died but simply ... faked their deaths in the most obvious manner. Drop out of the Net and form your own while the remaining Psy believe you to be dead.

He would keep this in mind.

"How many?" he asked. "How many does it take for the Net to be stable enough?"

Again she glanced at her mate and he knew there was something she wanted to say but likely couldn't without compromising a pack secret. "Just a rough idea will do," he added, to spare her the choice.

She sighed. "I have heard of a case where two adults managed to defect along with three children, one of them a teenager. They struggled to keep the children from accidentally linking back to the original PsyNet, though, and their net was very fragile. It would take at least four people above their teens to get a stable network. The more, the better."

Sherlock nodded again, filing the information away. It would not help him. There were no Psy besides Molly whom he knew well enough for such an endeavour and clearly neither he nor John trusted John's fragile connection to his family pack. Yes, they were family, but how close were they? Would his position on the edge of the pack be enough to keep Sherlock alive and to supply him with the biofeedback he needed? Would his pack even allow it? Or would they shy away from the thought of a Psy connected to a network they likely didn't even know existed between them?

Lucas Hunter cleared his throat, drawing Sherlock's attention back to him. "However," he said, "there is one thing we can help you with. The dissonance is your main problem right now. You cannot be mated to a changeling and at the same time experience dissonance. It will kill you sooner rather than later and cause a lot of brain damage before that."

Sherlock nodded. "I am aware. But I cannot simply break Silence completely. I am a Gradient 9.9 TK. I would put any person around me at risk, including John."

The alpha gave him an approving look. "The fact that you have already considered this and chose to keep the triggers says a lot about you, I believe. We do have someone who might be able to help. A contact, if you will."

"I'm pathing him right now," his mate said, her night-sky eyes turning completely black for a moment as she telepathically relayed a message to someone else. Another Psy, then, and someone she knew well if they had an open channel of communication between them. Sherlock wondered if he was part of the group of defectors she had mentioned. It seemed likely.

"He says he would be happy to help," she announced a minute later. "Your location on the other side of the Atlantic makes everything a bit complicated but he said if you could provide him with a location of where to meet, he will find you."

Sherlock felt a shiver run down his spine at the very idea of someone else playing around in his head. "How do I know I can trust him? Or that I am talking to the right person?"

"Tell him Sasha sends her love," she said. "There is no code I can give you in return. You will know him when you see him and you will only see him when he wishes you to."

The shiver that ran down Sherlock's spine this time was for an entirely different reason. "Understood."

Underneath the table, John reached out and grasped his hand again, holding on tight.

*****

Once they had ended the call with a soft 'good luck' from Sasha and a 'I'm sure we'll talk again, soon' from her mate, Sherlock allowed John to drag him back home.

They thanked WhiteSpot again for their help in setting up the call, asked for secrecy regarding their mating and the entire call ever having happened, and hailed a cab back to their flat from the other side of the park.

The ride home passed in silence, both of them lost in thought and all too aware that the back of a cab was not exactly the most secure place to discuss all that they had just learned.

As soon as the door to their flat clicked shut behind them, Sherlock found himself pushed against it and a warm mouth covering his own as John kissed him for all he was worth.

"What do we do?" he panted when they finally broke apart.

Sherlock shook his head, forcing back the headache he felt coming on. His TK was slowly returning and all his triggers were reactivating. Soon the dissonance would become unbearable, now that a direct link existed between him and John that was entirely based on sentiment.

"We will meet their friend and see what comes of it," he said simply. He paused, then added: "It had never even occurred to me, you know? I never even considered it could be something so easy and yet so complex as setting up a new network, side by side with the PsyNet but completely separate. Secure from outside influences. So many of them must have done it - the number of defectors might be a lot higher than we will ever know. Of course the Council would never let on, if they even know about this."

John shook his head in frustration. "It doesn't help you, though. You still can't drop out. Unless ... what about Molly?"

But the same thing had already occurred to Sherlock. "No. Sasha Duncan and Faith Nightstar were able to defect because they were not only leaving the PsyNet but also joining a very powerful changeling pack that was equipped to protect them. We do not have the same luxury. I do not doubt that you and I would do a good job of trying to keep us safe but our situation is entirely different. We live in a large city, not some secure and secluded den in the middle of a National Park. Perhaps it could work if we went to rejoin your pack, but you have already made it clear that you do not feel particularly close to them and neither you nor I wish to leave London."

John opened his mouth to argue but Sherlock shook his head again. "I will not compromise our life, John. Neither of us would be happy doing anything else but this while we are still fit enough to do so. We would both hate being away from London and neither one of us deals well with being denied our way of life."

"You're right," John murmured, slinging his arms around Sherlock and pressing his face to his chest. "I wish you weren't but you're right. I told myself, _swore_ to myself, I would not ever let anyone put you in a cage the way Silence did. The way Silence does. So we'll just have to wait, I guess."

"Not for long," Sherlock said. "He said he'd find me. I do not expect it to take longer than a day at most."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed the chapter count has gone up - this chapter ended up being so long I decided to split it in half, just to keep the suspense going for a bit longer ;-)


	27. Chapter 26

It did not take a day.

Emily called John a mere four hours later with instructions of where to meet.

"An hour from now," John said. "How is that even possible?"

Sherlock merely hummed and continued scrolling through his datapad "I am not surprised."

"He'd need to either already be in London or have some other means of transport," John pointed out. "Even our current planes can't carry someone from San Francisco to London in five hours, not counting the time spent getting a ticket, driving to and from the airports, check-in and all the other nuisance of air travel."

"Well, he would, wouldn't he?" Sherlock said. "Have an alternative means of transport, I mean."

John frowned at him. "You know something. What are you not telling me?"

Sherlock smiled. "He is... was ... an Arrow. I'm fairly certain."

"A what?"

"Come now, John. You must have heard of them. The bogeymen of the PsyNet, the nightmare you tell your children about to make them behave."

"The elite soldiers who answer only to the Council?" John asked.

"To one member of the council," Sherlock corrected. "It used to be Councillor Ming LeBron but he lost their loyalty some time ago. The Arrows are not loyal to the Council or even the Silence Protocol. Their loyalty belongs to the PsyNet. Nothing more, nothing less. They are all well-trained killers and assassins, the best fighting unit in the world. There isn't a threat they could not deal with. Only the best of the best are chosen and trained for the Arrow Squad. They move like ghosts. Every single one of them is more dangerous than half the council combined."

John put his hands on his hips. "And how do you know all of that?"

"They tried to recruit me," Sherlock said with astonishing nonchalance. "When I was still a child. Any Gradient 9 or higher TK is highly valuable. The skill set is ideal for an assassin. But they soon found that my Silence was too precarious, that it would not hold under the rigorous training. So they let me go. I suspect they've been keeping an eye on me. It would have been easy, seeing who my brother is."

John shivered and reached for his hand. "I can't imagine you as an assassin," he said. "You'd have been very good, I have no doubt - you exceed at everything you put your mind to. But I would not want to see you come near any of these people."

"You've met one of them before," Sherlock told him calmly. "And if I remember correctly, you were so impressed you tried to flirt with her, despite the fact that she was Psy."

John blinked. "Who-"

"Anthea. She's my brother's personal protection detail and direct contact to the squad. I know there are others that he deals with on a regular basis but Anthea is specifically there for his protection."

Sherlock didn't give John any chance to digest that. He merely stood and pulled on his coat. "Come on, we should go. I want to be there a bit early."

John sighed and put on his own jacket. "I don't like this. Why on earth would we be meeting with a trained assassin?"

"Because he clearly defected. I did not know any Arrow would ever consider such a thing. Then again, for the longest time I did not know anyone would ever succeed at defecting. It's a brave new world we're living in, John."

"That is not reassuring in the slightest." Grumbling, John followed his mate out the door. He didn't like any of this but he would not let Sherlock face this stranger alone. If this Arrow thought he could harm Sherlock, he would find himself being picked out of John's teeth, assassin or not.

They walked down Baker Street in silence, each busy with his own thoughts.

"An interesting meeting place," Sherlock noted. "Conveniently close to our flat, which suggests they already know where we live but didn't feel safe in meeting us on our turf."

"I wouldn't, either," John said. "And I wouldn't want a stranger in our flat at the moment."

"Hm, you get anxious even when it's just Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said. "Don't think I didn't notice."

"It's the mating bond," John explained, rubbing a hand over his face. "It makes me irrational. It will pass - it's just the first couple of days. All I want is to have you to myself, to keep you away from anyone else."

"In case I change my mind?" Sherlock joked.

John laughed. "Nah, it's too late for that, sorry. I just want to spend every minute of every day in bed with you."

To his delight, Sherlock blushed.

"Well," he said primly, "consider this outing a relevant step towards that plan, then. If we were to engage in intercourse at the moment, I would likely die of a brain aneurysm. Hence this meeting."

They entered Regent's Park, crossed the bridge spanning the pond and made for the bandstand on the lawn.

There weren't many people around at this time of the evening and the bandstand stood empty. It was a good place to meet. An open space where no one could sneak up on them to listen in on their conversation. Their contact must be feeling very secure in his anonymity if he didn't think twice about being so exposed.

John kept his ears pricked, his tiger tense with anticipation as he looked around the lawn.

Sherlock led the way up the steps and leaned against one of the pillars with all the studied nonchalance of someone waiting for the bus.

John took up his position next to him, turning his head this way and that to keep the entire area around them in his sight.

"There they are," Sherlock murmured a couple of minutes later as two men appeared on a patch of grass fifty feet from them that had been empty a moment ago. "Just as I thought - he asked a Teleporter to bring him. Must be a true teleporter to manage this distance."

"That's ... that's the same guy who brought Mycroft to the hangar," John said. "I'd know that metal arm anywhere. He teleported all of us back to Baker Street in less than a second."

The two Psy talked for a moment and then the Teleporter vanished. The other male began striding towards them.

It was the way he moved that convinced John that Sherlock had been right. No Psy he had ever met walked like this - at a confident prowl, no superfluous movements, conserving energy even as he stalked towards them. If this man hadn't had military training at some point, John would eat his own tail.

Next to him, Sherlock lifted his chin and stood up straight, drawing his shoulders back.

It felt like half an eternity but was likely just 20 seconds until the other Psy reached them.

"Good evening," he said.

"Good evening," Sherlock replied. "How are you?"

"Quite well, thank you," the man replied, which was all the proof Sherlock seemed to need to know this Psy was not Silent.

John could have told him the same thing. The male's scent was similar to Sherlock's - not the actual smell, just the notes to it. Mated to a changeling woman.

"Sasha sends her love," John said and the man smiled.

"She meddles too much. But if Sasha asks me for a favour, it will be done."

"We appreciate it," Sherlock told him, stepping forward and holing out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes. This is my mate, John Watson."

The Psy shook both their hands without flinching at the contact. "Judd Lauren. I see from the look on your face that you have heard of me, Mr Holmes."

John assumed that meant that Sherlock had been right about his theory regarding the man's past.

"I had heard that the Lauren family vanished from the PsyNet several years ago and were presumed dead," his mate said. "I'm pleased to know you found death to be not to your taste. Did DarkRiver hide you?"

Judd shook his head. "That would be SnowDancer."

"The wolves?" John blurted, surprised. "Everyone knows they kill intruders first and ask questions later."

Judd blinked at him. "They make an exception if you bring children along. My brother and I chose to risk being killed if it meant getting my nieces and nephew out of the Council's reach. As you can see, the wolves decided to keep us alive. I am now one of alpha Hawke's Lieutenants."

It was not idle conversation but a warning.  _'If you try to harm me, the combined wrath of one of the largest and most dangerous packs in the world will come down on you.'_

John nodded. "Congratulations."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Lucas Hunter said you might be able to help me find a way to circumvent the dissonance."

Judd tilted his head and scanned him from head to toe. "You are still standing upright despite your mate's being here. How long ago was your flame-out?"

"I only woke up from it in the early hours of this morning," Sherlock replied. "My TK is still mostly depleted but recharging as we speak. It will not be long until the dissonance is back to full strength."

The Psy nodded thoughtfully. "As TK, we pose more of a danger to those around us if we lose control, so the dissonance has been set up in a way that will cause us considerably more pain and restrict our thoughts and actions more strongly than those of other Psy. We cannot break Silence fully without endangering those around us, yet to remain Silent is clearly not an option for you any longer. The mating bond and the dissonance combined would kill you."

Sherlock nodded. "Precisely. But I cannot simply disable the triggers without endangering everyone around me, just as you said."

Judd looked around, taking in the open space around them. "I do not like being here. Although the Arrows are anonymous, someone might see me and upload my picture to the Net. Ideally, we would do this indoors. Is there a place we can go where we will remain undisturbed?"

"Home," John found himself saying. "We can take you to our home."

Sherlock shot him a surprised look, which was to be expected after their earlier conversation about John not wanting strangers in their flat. Yet he nodded without hesitation. "If you trust us enough to come with us, we would be safe in our flat," he told the Psy.

Judd Lauren smiled the tiniest smile and dipped his head. "Lead the way."

*****

Sherlock allowed John to lead the way back to Baker Street in silence, choosing to walk next to the other Psy. They did not speak but Sherlock was already composing a list of questions for him.

Another TK and a strong one at that - the Arrows would not have taken anyone below 9.5 on the Gradient. And yet this man, who had been trained to be a ruthless killer, a member of the most dangerous military squad their world had ever seen (or, rather, not seen) had left his entire life and his squad behind to defect from the Net along with his brother and nieces and nephew, according to his own words.

It was the most remarkable thing Sherlock had ever heard, including the existence of an E designation. If there was salvation even for the Arrows, then perhaps he, too, might get away with this.

John unlocked the front door and ushered them inside, locking the door behind them as Sherlock led Judd up the stairs. He was not worried about the man attacking them in their own home. Strong pack or not, John would tear him to pieces for the attempt and there was no reason for the other Psy to act hostile towards them.

He used his TK to switch on the lights, hoping that using his power would help deplete it a bit more and buy him some additional time before the dissonance inevitably set in.

He gestured Judd toward a chair. "Have a seat and tell me what we can do."

The man sat down in the chair usually reserved for clients while Sherlock and John sank into their respective armchairs.

"I had to disable and recalibrate my own triggers when I met my mate," he began and Sherlock sent a sharp glance at John, who nodded. Clearly he had smelled this little fact on their guest already. Perhaps that was why John of all people had decided to trust this man in their flat.

Judd ignored their silent conversation and continued. "I am of the sub-designation TK-Cell, if that tells you anything. While my TK works just as well as yours, it is specialised to work at a cellular level. I was trained to use it to kill people, to stop their hearts in their chests. Recently, I have found a better way to put it to use by rearranging cells and tissue to heal wounds. But the triggers in my brain are likely very similar to yours. If this is the case, there will be a kill switch somewhere. If you get too emotional and your TK gets out of control, this trigger will cause your death."

John sucked in a breath and Judd held up a hand. "This is the first trigger we will disable. You do not require it. There is no way you could ever harm your mate. My own TK has recognised my mate as a part of myself, something that will automatically be protected from every outside threat. However, this does not extend to others in your vicinity, as far as I have been able to discover. We will therefore reprogramme the kill switch so it will merely make you black out. It is not ideal and may leave you vulnerable at unfortunate moments, but it will also give you the assurance that you will not be provoked into an accidental flare of your power. And, of course, it won't kill you and thus spare your mate from worrying."

If he had not believed that the man before him was mated, this last statement would have convinced him. His own worry for John was the main thing that had kept Sherlock clinging to the remnants of his Silence. To have that acknowledged was more reassuring than he had expected.

"How?" he asked. "How do we reprogramme these triggers?"

"Carefully," Judd said. "We do it  _very_ carefully. It will take hours and it will be exhausting. It will also require a lot of trust. I cannot show you how I did it to myself, it was a process that involved a lot of trial and no room for error. Perhaps it will go faster with you because I know what to look for now. There will also be traps built into the triggers, to cause damage if you attempt to disable them."

"I managed to disable them temporarily," Sherlock said. "But I recognised there were some things that did not seem quite right about them and I did not dare get too close."

"A good choice," Judd confirmed. "I will have to enter your mind to get the full picture and to work on the triggers myself. We are trained from a very young age not to let other people in, so this will be very disturbing and uncomfortable for you. Unfortunately, there is no other way. I cannot walk you through it without knowing precisely what we are looking at."

Sherlock nodded. "I thought it would come to that," he admitted. "There is no other reasonable way you could help me disable them."

John made a rough sound of protest and Sherlock leaned forward, reaching for his hand. "I have to do this," he insisted. "The dissonance will kill me sooner rather than later. Best to get rid of it now while I have hardly any TK to speak of. I have no other choice but to try."

John still didn't look happy but he nodded. "All right."

He turned his head and fixed Judd with eyes that had shifted to bright yellow. "You better know what you are doing, Mister. If any harm comes to my mate, you will not leave this flat alive."

Judd met his gaze head on. "I would expect nothing less from you, John. The idea of anyone doing something like this to my mate would be enough to send me into a murderous rage, so I appreciate your composure. And the warning. I assure you it will be heeded."

"Let's start, then," Sherlock said impatiently. "I want to get this over with as quickly as possible."

"I'll make sure you won't be disturbed," John promised, standing up to also lock the doors to their flat before reaching for his datapad, no doubt to send a message to Lestrade so the DI would defer his visit to get their statements until at least the next day.

"You will need to let me past your shields," Judd told Sherlock again. "It will be difficult and your every instinct will fight you on this. Do try not to attack me."

"I've had another Psy try to invade my mind this week already," Sherlock warned him. "He favoured a very violent method. It is the reason for my flame-out and I still do not know how precisely I managed to keep him out. You may want to tread very carefully, though I think me planting an emotional bomb in your head as a defence mechanism will do you no harm."

"I imagine it did plenty of harm to your opponent," Judd murmured. "Psy are not taught to deal with emotion. I am amazed it did not kill him."

"No," John said calmly. "That was me."

*****

John made his sixth cup of tea and resumed his pacing while the kettle boiled.

It had been four hours. Four endless hours of Sherlock and Judd Lauren sitting in their respective chairs with their eyes closed, not moving so much as a single finger as they did whatever it was they were doing in Sherlock's head.

In the beginning, Sherlock had been so tense John had wanted to reach out and touch him, to pet all the tension out of his body. He had refrained from doing so, however, not wanting to distract his mate or accidentally cause some dissonance through the physical contact.

Sherlock had relaxed a little about an hour into the procedure, if that was what it could be called, and John had felt some of his own tension dissipate. The mating bond was calm and quiet - there was no fear or pain to be felt through it and John decided to take that as a good sign.

Judd had said it was going to take a long time and John was usually quite good at waiting but not being able to help in any way had him on edge.

The kettle boiled and he strode into the kitchen to flick it off and pour himself a cuppa, wishing he could at least press one into Sherlock's hands and get some liquid into his mate.

But that, too, might be a distraction, and he did not want him to accidentally spill hot tea all over himself.

No, things like food and drink and touch would have to wait until the two Psy emerged from the mental plane they were currently on.

John took several sips of his tea and then decided he couldn't stand another drop of it. He put the mug back down.

It wasn't going to work like this. Being human was stressing him out too much.

He walked into their bedroom, leaving the door open, and quickly shed his clothes.

The shift rippled through him, the pleasure-pain of the transformation a joy he had gone without for too long.

John stretched and padded back into the sitting room. It was easier to deal with emotion in his animal form. Everything was so much simpler to the tiger. His mate was right there but currently beyond his reach. There was a strange Psy in the flat but he smelled of authority and his own mate and Sherlock needed him to be here. Therefore, John needed him to be here.

He stretched out on the worn carpet in front of the fireplace and put his head down between his paws, his eyes fixed on the two Psy.

And so he waited.

*****

It took almost six hours until Sherlock blinked and opened his eyes while Judd sagged in his chair, both of them rubbing their temples.

"That was ..." Sherlock started and broke off, his throat dry. He found two glasses of water on the table next to himself and wordlessly offered one to Judd before gulping down his own.

John had shifted at some point while they had been occupied and now he sat up, an enormous tiger in their sitting room. Yellow eyes fixed on Sherlock and he made a questioning sound.

"It worked," Judd said, confirming what Sherlock had perceived from their hours of work. "The kill-switch has been disabled and reprogrammed and the dissonance triggers have been removed."

John moved forward instantly, putting his massive head down in Sherlock's lab, a low rumble in his throat. Sherlock lifted his hand to John's head and ran his fingers through thick black-and-orange fur. John's ears twitched and he closed his eyes in obvious pleasure even as Sherlock marvelled in the complete and utter lack of an adverse reaction in his head.

"It will stay like this from now on?" he asked, disbelieving. "No dissonance?"

"No more dissonance," Judd confirmed. "Though you will still get a warning when you get too close to losing control over your TK. It will no longer be tied to pain, though."

Sherlock nodded. It was all he had really wanted or needed to hear. "Thank you."

The Psy smiled. "My pleasure. You will of course still have to hide. Your shields are very good already but I will ask Sasha to contact you directly anyway. She is very good with shields and can give you some more tips on how to properly hide your lack of Silence in the PsyNet. The safest option for now is for you to stay in it, although it is not an ideal situation."

He paused, hesitated. "Change is coming. You should both brace yourselves for it. A few months from now, the world may be a very different place than it is now. Hold on until then."

Sherlock recalled his brother's words, weeks ago, asking him to hold on just a little longer. Clearly something was brewing in the world. He could make an estimated guess as to who was involved in these changes.

"We will," he promised.

"And one more thing," Judd said and now he was grinning. "You need to find a way to channel your TK. I may have disabled your triggers but your TK will still run rampant when you are engaged in any sort of physical and emotional intimacy. My mate and I have had to replace the furniture several times already. It is not easy to keep control."

Sherlock struggled not to blush. "How ..."

"Run a bath," Judd said. "I found that works quite well for me. I run a bath beforehand and then channel all my TK into the water while I am ... otherwise occupied. Freeze it, boil it, freeze it again. Do whatever it takes. Depending on how your TK works, you may have to experiment a little. I suggest you find a place far away from the city where any damage you cause can be easily hidden and won't cause comment until you have found a system that works for you."

Sherlock nodded again. "I will keep that in mind. Thank you."

He cleared his throat. "Really. Thank you. If ever you are in need of a consulting detective, don't hesitate to reach out."

Judd inclined his head. "I shall."

He stood and stretched. "You may wish to slowly get used to ordinary food, too," he said. "But start out small. It will take your taste buds some time to get used to any sort of flavour that is stronger than very mild tea."

"So long as it doesn't give me a nosebleed anymore, I think I will be fine," Sherlock told him, smiling.

John glanced between the two and then disappeared down the hall. He returned a minute later in jeans and a t-shirt, his feet still bare.

"Thank you," he said, grasping Judd's hand and shaking it. "I don't know what we would have done without your help."

"You would have found a way," Judd shrugged. "I have learned that love tends to find a way, no matter what. And all the Silence in the world cannot hold it back."

He turned and left without further goodbye.

John and Sherlock stepped to the window and watched him walk down the street. He was halfway down the road when the Teleporter appeared beside him. They were both gone a moment later.

Sherlock let out a shuddering breath. "We made it," he said softly. "We really made it, John."

John smiled and pressed a kiss to his mate's throat. "So it seems."

He kissed Sherlock's neck again, licking a long, wet stripe up towards his jaw.

Sherlock moaned but backed away.

"Where are you going?" John protested. "I wasn't done with you yet."

Sherlock was already walking away, throwing a grin over his shoulder. "I've got to run a bath."


	28. Chapter 27

They did eventually give their statements to Lestrade the next day, taking a cab to the yard and spending about an hour talking the DI through the attack on them and the ensuing events at the hangar.

"There wasn't too much damage done," Lestrade assured John when he asked about the chaos his appearance had likely caused in the city. "Two people walked into lamp posts and a tourist twisted his ankle when he tried to run away before he realised you didn't give a shit about him. Some minor car accidents when people were too busy staring at you to notice the car in front of them had stopped but there were no injuries. None of it is your fault, John. This is a city full of changelings and there is no law preventing you from walking around in your animal form. It is not your fault it is such a rare one."

John nodded and relaxed a bit and Sherlock reached out and squeezed his hand. "See? I told you. There is no need to apologise for being exceptional, John."

John rolled his eyes. "You are hardly in a position to judge, Sherlock. You are biased in my favour."

Sherlock smiled. "Just as I should be."

He turned to Lestrade. "Now, do you have anything else for us? I feel I have been holed up at home for too long. I need something to keep my mind occupied."

"Are you saying I haven't kept you busy enough?" John asked. "Shall I drag you back home and give you something to keep you sufficiently occupied?"

"Tempting," Sherlock murmured to him. "But I do need to chase down a criminal, John. Even if it's not a serial killer."

"It better not be," John said. "I'm quite fed up with those for the time being."

Lestrade merely watched their debate. "Yeah, there hasn't been much going on since your little adventure," he said. "We were mostly busy cleaning up at the hangar. I tried to chase some leads on this Jim Moriarty guy but the Psy are tight-lipped as usual about it. Couldn't get any of the bastards to talk to me. It seems they are trying to pretend he never even existed."

"I suppose that is easier than to admit a psychopath was hiding in the Net all along and using Silence and his twisted Telepathy to murder changelings and Psy alike," Sherlock noted. "They will want to forget it ever happened and they will definitely want to keep the broader populace from finding out. There has been too much bad press about the PsyCouncil and Silence recently. With all these high-profile defections and their recent losses in skirmishes with the DarkRiver and SnowDancer packs around San Francisco and in the Sierra Nevada, they are already in a precarious position. The Council will try to keep its hold on the Protocol for the time being. Don't expect them to admit Jim Moriarty ever existed. As far as they are concerned, Silence is flawless and does not fail."

Lestrade sighed. "That is not helpful, Sherlock."

He shrugged. "It's the best you can get. We caught the killer and eliminated him. He will never hurt anyone again. My advise is to let it go. You won't get any more than that and it is considerably more than we could have hoped for."

"It is?"

"If they had found him before we did, we never would have found out who it was," Sherlock told him. "The murders would have simply stopped and that would have been it."

"At least the victim's families and packs got closure this way," John said softly. "At least we managed to give them that much."

"It's all because of you," Sherlock told him. "You made it all possible. You kept me alive and came to find me. You finished him off."

John shook his head. "I killed three people. I'm not proud of it but I'm not sorry either."

"Good," Lestrade said firmly. "You should not be. You were protecting your mate. There is nothing anyone would ever say against that."

John nodded and seemed to accept this. Sherlock decided to thank him again later anyway.

*****

Two days later, John and Sherlock got in a car and drove all the way up to the north of England to pay a visit to John's pack.

The reactions they garnered ranged from overjoyed to surprised to shocked to utterly horrified. This latter reaction was courtesy of John's parents, who it turned out didn't waste any time being outraged at his mating to a Psy because they were too busy being outraged at that Psy being male.

His sister Harry, on the other hand, hugged John long and hard before subjecting Sherlock to the same treatment. "Thank you," she murmured in his ear, "for making my brother so happy. I have never seen him so content."

"Your parents do not seem to share the sentiment," Sherlock murmured back.

She rolled her eyes and stepped back. "Ignore them. They still haven't forgiven him for being a loner instead of becoming the prestigious Sentinel they wanted him to be. And they're convinced that their children only exist as a stepping stone to grandchildren."

"I will do my best to keep John away from them, then," Sherlock said. "I do not care what they say to me. He will be hurt by their words anyway. I always thought there was nothing more precious to a changeling than their children."

Harry snorted. "Yeah, they didn't get the memo. Come on, you should meet the rest of the pack."

And she dragged him along, introducing him to their alpha and the other members of the pack that was now technically also his. They were lovely people, if a bit rough around the edges, and John's parents seemed to be the only ones who took offense to his being male, though there were a few raised eyebrows at the fact that he was Psy.

Sherlock watched the general scepticism for several long minutes.

But then he found John talking to his parents after all and his mother said "Oh John, what were you thinking?" and Sherlock found he was fed up.

He stalked towards them, grabbed John by the hand and turned him around before taking his face in his hands and kissing him right there in the middle of the pack's community area. He kissed him and kissed him and kissed him, until they were both breathless and he could barely hear anything over the roaring in his ears.

John stared up at him, a bit dazed. "What was that for?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I just felt like it," he said. "Come on. We've had a long drive and you need to get some sleep."

He spotted Harry in the crowd and dragged John towards her without sparing John's parents another glance. "Did you find us a good place to stay?"

She nodded. "There's a cabin about three miles from here in the middle of the forest." She handed him a key. "Take this car. I've already entered the coordinates into the GPS system."

"Thanks Harry," John said, giving his sister another hug. "It's good to see you again."

She smiled. "It's good to see you, too, Johnny. I'm really glad you found your place in the world even though it's not with us."

He squeezed her tighter. "I'll always be with you. Just ... you know, a bit farther away. You should come visit us."

"London has some rather fantastic gay bars, or so I have been told," Sherlock added helpfully. "And we know an Ocelot who would no doubt love to meet you."

Harry laughed out loud. "Oh, I like your mate, Johnny. He's a keeper."

"That's what I was thinking," John agreed. "Come on, Sherlock. I could really do with that cabin alone in the woods now."

"I hope it has a bathtub," Sherlock said.

"A whirlpool, actually," Harry told him. "I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

"I'll definitely put it to good use," Sherlock assured her and John had to muffle his laughter in his sleeve.

*****

They managed to get through four months of what passed for peace in their life.

They continued as usual and to an outsider nothing had changed. They didn't touch in public. As far as a casual observer knew, they didn't touch at all.

Sherlock Holmes was a Psy and he was Silent. These were the facts and they made sure people didn't forget.

Of course they didn't manage to fool any of the changelings they met but no changeling would ever consider ratting them out to the PsyCouncil - a mate was a mate and even your worst enemy would think twice before putting your mate at risk. There were things that simply weren't done.

The moment the door to 221b fell closed behind them or they were within the safety of the walls of Scotland Yard, they reached for each other. They were still experimenting with touch and bathtubs and although their time up North helped a lot with both, touch was still new enough for Sherlock to make him absolutely single-minded in his attention towards it.

Perhaps one day he would be able to solve a murder while John's thumb was tracing circles across his hipbone, but for now that day was a long way off.

One morning, John was woken by Sherlock shaking his shoulder and gasping his name, a note of urgency in his voice that had John sitting up, claws out before he even opened his eyes.

"We're safe, relax," Sherlock said, curling himself around John and clasping his hands. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."

"What happened?" John asked, yawning.

Wordlessly, Sherlock levitated his datapad into John's lap and turned it on.

"... Nikita Duncan, Anthony Nightstar and Kaleb Krychek have taken over the PsyCouncil. In their first joint statement, they have announced a New Alliance with the changelings and humans, the Trinity Accords, and the fall of Silence."

John stared.

"... effective immediately, the Council will work together with the human and changeling signees of the Trinity Accords and welcome the E-Psy into the PsyNet to help fight the infestation that has been threatening the Net-"

"Sherlock," John said softly.

"It's all over the Net, too," Sherlock whispered, his gaze turned inward. "I've never seen it look like this. There are ... E-Psy, like Sasha Duncan. John, I wish you could see it. It's like a black, endless night full of stars and now some of them ... some of them just spread sparks, colourful sparks, all around them. It's ... John, it's beautiful."

He blinked. "Molly, too."

"I thought she was an M?"

"E must be her second designation," Sherlock mused. "Most Psy have one ability they are very good at and one or two others of a lower Gradient. Her Medical ability is at an 8.7 but that doesn't mean she can't be a gradient 4 or 5 E as well. This is ... John...."

For the first time ever, John witnessed his brilliant mate at a loss for words. "Fantastic," he murmured, gathering Sherlock close. "It's fantastic."

His mate returned the embrace, clinging to him. The datapad lay forgotten on the bed as they held onto each other for a long time.

"Does ... does that mean we don't have to hide anymore?" John finally asked, finally starting to process the news.

Dark curls brushed against his cheek in what he could tell was supposed to be a nod. On the screen of Sherlock's datapad, John could just about make out the closing lines of the transcribed statement:

_'We are not cowards to hide from the powers that define us. We are Psy and we are capable of greatness. It is time to step out of the dark.'_

"We're free," Sherlock whispered. "We're finally free."

*****

 

**To be continued ...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, my lovelies. Another story done. For now...
> 
> Some of you expressed an interest in seeing more of this world, so I'm sure you will be happy to hear that I will in fact be writing a sequel to this. I haven't started yet but I do have some ideas that I hope to turn into an actual story soon. With the way NaNoWriMo has been going for me (I'm at 72k), I might write part of it before the month is over.
> 
> Thank you, as always, for following me into this fantastic world and for trusting me to lead you through it even if you were unfamiliar with Nalini Singh's books. For those of you who have read them, thank you for your enthusiasm and for confirming that I did it well.
> 
> Special things go to my dear friend Sniper_clam, without whom I would not have read these books and this story wouldn't exist. Go read her Avengers/Jumanji crossover!
> 
> Finally, I have to thank Nalini Singh herself, although she will never read this, for the wonderful world she has built. I love love love playing in it.


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